Sonnet
by Quill Angel
Summary: He looked like he had stepped out from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy- with his high cheekbones, piercing grey blue eyes, and the pale, ghostly tint of his skin. Sherlock Holmes was a sonnet to be recited, a ballad ready to be sung, a love story begging to be read. He was drama and romance and beauty. And he thought John Watson was fascinating. Teenlock. (Smut. TW inside)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi. So, I'm currently working on another piece. But I was faced with writer's block and I came up with this instead. My other story is my priority right now, so updates will be slow. But I have every intention of finishing this story, and I promise I will update as fast as I can. And, yes, there will be some good ol' teenlock smut. But not for a while. **

**(This has been added on a later note, considering I haven't added trigger warnings and they might be needed. TW for mentions of substance abuse, and future violence/ slight non-con. Be warned, and read at your own risk.)**

**Other than that, enjoy! :) **

:1:

Sherlock was not fond of school. Sherlock _detested _school. Mostly because it was dull. Sherlock found everything extremely dull. And boring. Life in general was boring, and Sherlock spent the majority of it moping about the unfairness of it all. What the _point _of being a genius when the world stubbornly refused to challenge you?

Which was why he was extremely annoyed when somebody began to knock very loudly on his door. Sherlock deduced this was his housekeeper. It wasn't much of a deduction. He moved only enough to throw his pillow at the door and complain, "I don't _want _to go to school! Go away!" Then he flopped back on the bed, and covered his face with a pillow to spare his eardrums the shock of her shrieks.

But she made it very difficult to get up, and when the butler joined in, it became very difficult indeed. So finally he had to wake up. Mycroft, evidently, did not care for this early morning drama, or he had expected Sherlock to wake up anyway. In any case, all he had done was place two slices of toast on the plate when Sherlock came downstairs to the breakfast table dressed in his uniform.

"Good morning," Mycroft said, not looking up from his newspaper.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, trying to sound very superior.

"Eat your toast," Mycroft replied very smoothly.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm aware. Eat your toast."

"You're positively _hateful_."

"Sit down and eat your toast or I'll close the library down."

"If you do that I shall run away," He sat down anyway. Mycroft did not make idle threats. That was one of the things that made him so distasteful. The other things were mainly just the fact that he existed. "And you'll never find me. And when you find me I'll run away again. I'll keep on running away until you grow tired of it and give up." He munched on some toast. It tasted awful.

"I seem to have forgotten that my brother was five years old," Mycroft murmured. "Where on _earth_ did I get the preposterous idea that he was sixteen?"

"All your ideas are preposterous. _You're _preposterous." Sherlock pushed his plate away.

"You haven't finished your breakfast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why do you _insist _on being so tiresome?" he demanded. "First you send me to school-"

"You _have _to go to school, Sherlock. I couldn't possibly stand having you here the whole day."

"_You're _not even here the whole day. Your statement makes absolutely no sense. It's because you're lying. If you lied in court you'd have to go to jail."

"I assure you I will not have to go to court any time soon," Mycroft replied smoothly, folding his newspaper and looking up at him. This irritated Sherlock a great deal. "Mother and Father will be home soon. I assume you'd like to leave before they're home?"

Mycroft insisted on dropping him off. Sherlock protested vehemently and left before he could say another word. One of Sherlock's greatest pleasures in life was antagonizing his brother. This provided, at least, slight entertainment in his otherwise dull life. He was going to be alarmingly early for school, but Mycroft was being his usual annoying self and if Sherlock stayed even a second more in his presence he might throw something at him.

He had to go by public transport, of course, and this was detestable. But the comic expression on Mycroft's face whenever he was unable to have his way was worth it. The utter dullness of humanity, of course, could not be ignored. Sherlock tried to amuse himself for a while by making deductions, but even this was boring. Everyone was an open book. The person in front of him was knee deep in debt, was having an affair, was going to be fired soon from his job...the girl beside him was a baby sitter and was a pathological thief, the boy on the other side of the bus had a smoking habit, fancied the girl in front of him, and was wearing someone else's shoes. It got boring after a while, and so he was relieved when he came to school.

Almost.

Sherlock did not have friends. He did not have the time for friends, nor was he inclined towards making an effort to cultivate relations with another human being. Friendship meant treating your friend like an equal, but everyone was an idiot and as Mycroft constantly told him, they were living in a world of goldfish. Besides, no one was interesting enough. His family, well, that was by birth. He had never asked for Mycroft, Mycroft just _was_.

He walked across the well kept field towards the main building. There were a few students milling about on the expansive grounds, but not many. Anderson and his annoying girlfriend were probably not here yet, which was honestly a relief. Since, if they were, they would probably greet him with their usual display of bullying. Sherlock found this very tedious. Anderson was too much of a coward to actually pick a fight with him, so instead, he used his limited vocabulary to verbally abuse Sherlock. It was physically painful listening to him try to bully Sherlock. He might have even welcomed a fight; it would have provided some relief to the insanity inside his head. But this? _Dull_.

Sherlock kept his head as low as he could, trying not to attract any attention. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to _interact _with him. He detested people on principle, so he avoided them to the best of his ability. Most people avoided him as well, but there were always those exceptions that refused to take his misanthropy at face value.

Sherlock checked his watch. Class wouldn't start for a while. What his first class was, he had no idea. That kind of information fell into the category of 'unwanted' 'useless' and 'unnecessary' and had been deleted by his brain a very long time ago. Basically, he wasn't going to attend it. Maybe if he missed enough classes they would expel him. He had been expelled before. He knew how to do it. Some might even call him an expert. Sure, his parents would pay a huge sum of money to prevent this, and that might work. But that didn't mean he would stop trying. His parents might eventually give up and he might mercifully, finally- be left to his own devices.

"Er- excuse me, mate? You know where 11B is?"

Sherlock was very rudely snapped out of his thoughts by this voice. He turned out quickly to take him in. Quite a bit shorter than Sherlock, but that wasn't surprising; Sherlock was tall for his age. A mop of dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic, dressed in a new uniform. Conventionally attractive, he mused. He had taken the train that morning, evidently. He had a younger sister, too. Judging from the folds in his shirt-

"Eh. Mate. D'you think you could help me, maybe?"

Sherlock squinted at him. No one had called him 'mate' before. This boy had surprised him. No one ever surprised him. His voice was peppy, upbeat, it might even be termed as 'friendly'. He seemed exactly the kind of person Sherlock should stay as far from as possible.

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

* * *

><p>John had never seen anyone like this boy before. He looked like he had stepped out from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy- with his high cheekbones, piercing grey blue eyes, and the pale, ghostly tint of his skin, and that shaggy head of thick curls the colour of dark chocolate. That bored, mopey expression on his face seemed to exaggerate his sharp, regal features. He was tall, thin; John could almost imagine him in breeches and doublet, maybe a riding crop by his side, but instead he was dressed in his hopelessly prosaic school uniform.<p>

He walked quickly and surely, and John had quite a time keeping up with his pace.

"So, what's your name? I'm John, John Watson."

The boy stopped suddenly, right in the middle of that deserted corridor. The expression on his face was unreadable. He stared at John for quite a few seconds, his pale, multi coloured eyes unfathomable.

"What?" he asked.

John wasn't very sure why this simple question was so shocking, but he decided to ask him again. You never knew with these posh schools.

"Your name? You're escorting me to my classroom like a little girl, so I might as well get to know you." He grinned, hoping a bit of humour would put him at ease.

The boy looked as confused as ever. Then he cleared his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as he did so.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, saying his name with something akin to a flourish, in that deep baritone of his.

Yep, he definitely should have existed a couple of centuries ago, with a posh old name like that. Who names their kid _Sherlock_?

"Brilliant. Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John smiled at him, putting out his hand for a friendly handshake.

Sherlock stared at him like he was some sort of exotic plant, or a specimen under a microscope- his lips slightly parted and his eyes fixed on John's outstretched hand.

Oh-kay. This bloke was weird. John pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pocket. "Well," he said loudly. "Classroom this way, then?"

Sherlock looked a bit surprised, as his eyes suddenly darted up to John's face, as if he hadn't expected him to speak at all. Then he cleared his throat again.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Right this way." He resumed walking.

He stopped in front of the door to an empty classroom. John knew he was early, so he wasn't surprised that no one was there yet.

"This is it," he waved a long fingered hand at the classroom. John stared longer than necessary at those fingers.

"Well, thanks, mate," he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock stiffened immediately under his touch, but John decided not to dwell on that. This bloke clearly did not like him. Wow. The first day of school was going brilliant for him, wasn't it?

He sat down as Sherlock stalked away. John tried not to feel bad about his aversion. He was probably one of those popular ones. Looked it too, with his subtle elegance and his obvious distaste for John.

Someone suddenly cleared his throat. John whipped his head to the door, from where the sound had come. Sherlock's head poked out from the frame. As soon as John's eyes met him, Sherlock stepped in, standing ramrod straight, and said very clearly, like he had practised a couple of times: "It was nice to meet you too."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock frowned at him, obviously not pleased with the fact that John was acting like such an idiot. "You said 'nice to meet you Sherlock.' So, I'm saying, 'nice to meet you, John.'"

John stared uncomprehendingly at him. "But I said that ages ago," he finally spluttered.

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock said slowly, rolling his eyes. "And I'm saying it ages after. What difference does it make?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, "No, I guess it doesn't." Not particularly because he believed it, just that he didn't know what else to say.

"Alright, then," Sherlock said, and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait," John called after him. He turned around.

"You could, ah- sit here. Get to know each other, maybe?" John could have punched himself. Who said things like that?

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "I already know a few things about you."

"What? What do you know?"

Sherlock walked closer to John, with a certain air of superiority, like he was about to do something that he knew he did brilliantly and he was aware of the effect it had on others.

"I know you came here by train. I know you have a younger sister who you dropped off at school before coming, I know you're a very good student, and this is the first time you've been to a private school, especially one as posh as this. I know that you have a dog, a small one- maybe a bulldog? Oh, and I'm pretty sure you played football this morning."

John stared at him. Then he laughed. "How on _earth _would you know that? Alright, mate, tell me who told you."

Sherlock looked severely affronted. "Nobody _told _me. I simply observed." He jutted his chin out superiorly.

"Alright. How did you _observe _then?" John sat back against his chair and looked up at him expectantly, letting the challenge lie there.

"Fairly simple, if you think about it. You were panting when I first saw you, and you're the athletic type; one look at you and that's clear enough. It's not much of a walk from the gate to the building, so I doubt that would tire you. The bottom of your trousers has a bit of mud; if you look at the colour carefully you'd know you're not from around here, since you don't find that kind here. You were panting, so you had evidently walked a bit, presumably from the station. How can I be so sure? The ticket holes still sticking to your trousers. Sister? There are two, not one. Could be your friend, but why wasn't he with you when he walked in? May have been younger than you, so maybe a different form? Not at all. Why would you ask two people for directions? Furthermore, there's a primary school five minutes from here which is evidently where you dropped her. Why couldn't it have been a brother? Then you would have brought him here, wouldn't you? And only the eleventh and twelfth form are co-educational here. You don't come from a family of a lot of means, clearly- your uniform is new, but your shoes are old- obviously hand-me-downs. If you were as rich as the other children here, you could afford new shoes. So you've been admitted here on merit, since the other alternative is money, and therefore, you're a good student. How do I know it's your first time? The fact that you're so early. If you're used to it, then you'd be as annoying as the others and come as late as possible. But you've taken the first train here, so I can tell you're excited. There are hairs on your trousers- you've got a dog, but they're below your knee so obviously a small dog. Oh, and as for football, you're wearing cleats." He took a deep breath. "Am I wrong?"

John's mouth was open. He quickly snapped it shut. "No. Mate, that was _brilliant_."

Sherlock shrugged, making a dismissive noise. "Most would call me a piss off."

John laughed, and to his surprise, even Sherlock cracked a smile. Not a smirk, not a sneer; a genuine smile. A small one, but a smile nevertheless. Before he could say something, the bell rung, and there was the sound of shuffling feet. People would be coming to class now.

"Well, come in. Aren't you going to attend class?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scowled, and left as dramatically as he had come.

John's first class was English. When Mr. Eccleston, his class teacher, read out the attendance sheet, he didn't even flinch when the students said Sherlock wasn't there. So he was one of _those _types, was he? The kind who thought they were too cool for classes? John chuckled to himself.

The students were friendly enough, and an especially pretty girl named Sarah sat next to him and offered him her notes.

After class was over, John turned around and asked his new friends about Sherlock. They stared at him. Sarah started giggling. They all laughed maliciously.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Sarah repeated. "The bloke with the cheekbones?"

That seemed like an accurate description of Sherlock, John thought. He nodded. "I guess so. Yeah."

"Well, then. Stay away from that one, then, mate," Edmund warned him.

John frowned at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" He didn't mean for it to come out so cutting.

"Oh come on. You've met him, haven't you? He seemed perfectly normal to you?" Edmund raised his eyebrows.

"Well...no," John said slowly, but he didn't see why it was so much of a big deal. Sure, Sherlock seemed a little different. Why was that so important, anyway? He didn't like these guys very much, after all. (Except Sarah. She was very pretty) He shrugged. "But he seemed nice to me."

Sarah giggled again. Okay, maybe not. "Are you sure we're talking about the same bloke? I don't know who you met, John, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't do _nice_."

Before John could reply, someone moved quickly past him. His friends saw who it was, and exchanged knowing smirks. John turned around. _Sherlock_.

He went right to the back of the classroom, sat down on a desk, perfectly straight, with his fingers against his lips, as if in prayer, staring transfixed at the blackboard like it as the only interesting thing in the room. He didn't give away any signs of having heard what Sarah had said, but John was fairly sure he had. No one was surprised to see him.

"It's Chemistry," Edmund explained. "He always turns up for Chemistry, that psycho."

John didn't want to listen to them anymore. He grabbed his bag, and walked right up to Sherlock's desk, and sat down in the immediate desk next to him. Sherlock gave no sign of noticing him, his eyes still fixed in front.

When John finally settled, he moved his hands away from his chin and said, "I hope you haven't come here to apologise or anything as tedious as that."

John chuckled. "No, mate. It's just that everyone in this classroom seems like an idiot."

Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. "Something I agree with, John."

John grinned at him. "So indirectly you're saying that I'm an idiot too."

Sherlock stilled momentarily. Then he spoke like he had never suffered a moment's hesitation. "I'm still making up my mind about you."

"Haven't you _observed _enough to know, by now?"

Sherlock looked at him. "You're making jokes."

"Yes."

"You're trying to be _funny_."

"Uh. Yes?"

"You're not making fun _of _me."

"No," John said quickly. "Of course not."

"I've decided that you are not an idiot, John Watson."

**A/N: Like I said, I don't plan on abandoning this. So hold tight. Oh, and pleeeeease review. That would make me very happy. :) So, until later. Cheers.**


	2. Chapter 2

**:2:**

John had thought that it would be nice to sit next to a friend during his first day of school. The friends he had made at first turned out to be insensitive berks, and Sherlock Holmes was far too interesting to ignore.

What he hadn't expected was he would have to sit next to an empty chair for the rest of the class because Sherlock would be thrown out five minutes into class.

John told himself that he probably hadn't _meant _to sound so obnoxious, but the look of arrogant superiority on his face clearly told him that he had. John couldn't even remember what the teacher had said, but Sherlock had unceremoniously corrected him, called him an 'idiot' and demanded to know how he had become a teacher in the first place.

John also had a feeling that this was a regular occurrence because all the teacher had said was, "Mr. Holmes, if you find my class so tiresome, do us all a favor and step out."

"I'd be _delighted,_" Sherlock had drawled, and with a particular look of disgust that would only look good on his face, he had walked out.

Sarah had turned to him with a look that clearly said, _Didn't I tell you, John? Didn't I _tell _you he was a psycho?_

But John didn't care.

After class was over, he checked his schedule and was glad to find he had a free period. Brilliant. He'd go look for Sherlock. John wasn't entirely sure _why _he was doing this, but there was something strangely endearing in having a boy who thought everyone was an idiot tell him that he, in fact, was not. But how did his opinion matter? John was aware he wasn't an idiot. And secondly, all the signs seemed to scream _Stay away from this psycho! _But John didn't think he was a psycho. John thought he was different, and different wasn't always bad.

* * *

><p>John Watson was a conundrum. And of course, common sense would dictate that Sherlock keep his distance from anything that resembled a paradox. Paradoxes were silly, and they were for the self-proclaimed village idiot, he mused; and certainly not worth his time. But then, he had known John Watson for all of ten minutes and he had already proven himself to be an exception. Sherlock found exceptions tedious; they were unsightly blots on the fluidity of a proven concept, and made matters much worse. But (ugh, Sherlock groaned inwardly. John Watson was full of 'buts') this boy hadn't made anything worse. Yet.<p>

Sherlock had found a ring buried deep in the dirt, and was examining it closely, trying to deduce something about it's previous owner. It was hardly challenging, but Sherlock's mind was stagnating into the pile of goo it became whenever he was faced with those tiresome lessons, and he needed something to get those wheels running again. It would have been preferable to plop it under the microscope back at home, (he considered simply pocketing it and going to his lab right then and there)

He was in the middle of deciding the owner's probable age when he heard the crunching of leaves under someone's foot.

Sherlock turned around to find John Watson frowning at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, sounding brusque and rude. He regretted the tone of his voice, but it wasn't if John would actually be hurt by it. People were only hurt by people they liked, and it was a stretch of the imagination that John had _anything _bordering on liking for Sherlock. _Sentiment_, Sherlock thought distastefully.

John raised a blond eyebrow at him. "I came looking for you, actually," he explained, walking up to him. Sherlock noticed how his hair was a bit more dishevelled than it was since the morning, and his left collar was slightly turned up at the edges. He had been looking for him for a while, then.

"Looking for me?" Sherlock echoed incredulously. "_Why_?"

John's lips quirked up in a smile. "You're forgetting you said 'nice to meet you, John,' to me. You haven't met me at all." He sat down beside him. Usually Sherlock detested when people invaded his personal space, but he found that he was not finding this position as unpleasant as he might have.

"What are _you _doing?" John asked, curiously eyeing the ring in Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock weighed the question in his head. His mind zoomed into overdrive, where he imagined what would be the probable result of telling this fairly normal boy that he was crouching in an obscure corner of the grounds, deducing a ring he had found half-buried in the dirt as an alternative to getting high.

"_What the fuck?" John would exclaim. _(Sherlock felt fairly certain that John was the kind of boy who swore openly. Or at least, the situation would prompt him too. Most situations with Sherlock caused people to swear) _"Mate, you're a freak." _Then he would give him a look of disgust and walk away, and the last thing Sherlock would remember would be the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot as John Watson ran away from him.

But, as he had told himself before, John didn't like him, and at the most, probably found him vaguely interesting, so what did he have to lose? However, there was that time in the morning when he had called him 'brilliant'. Did people usually-

"Sherlock? Hello? Anybody in there?"

Sherlock rapidly blinked a couple of times and realised John was waving a hand in front of his face. _Idiot_, he chastised himself. Now there was an even smaller chance of John liking him.

"I found this ring in the dirt," Sherlock told him, holding it up to eye level for him to see. "And I can tell that this ring is fairly new, it belongs to a woman, and it was thrown away because of an unhappy love affair. I was bored. Life generally bores me, so I came here. I come here quite often, you know-"

"How the _hell _did you find all that out from one ring?" John's blue eyes were widened in shock. Nice colour, those eyes- dark blue, kind of like sapphires-

Sherlock cleared his throat, banishing those thoughts immediately. _What in the world was wrong with him? Was he actually thinking about the colour of John Watson's eyes?_

"Well, the fact that this ring is pretty new you can see from it's sheen. It hasn't been buried very long, since it wasn't buried too deep and the metal is still strong. You see all these scratches along the rim- she probably keeps it with a whole assortment of other things which doesn't exactly point to someone who cares a great deal for her marriage. Then you see the difference between the outside of the ring, and the inside- it's been removed regularly because it's cleaner on the inside than the outside. It hasn't been removed to clean, obviously- so why would anyone attempt to remove the proof of a marriage? Affair. Young woman- clearly- look at the design of the ring. It can't be an old woman because a. It's unlikely she would be having an affair, and b. Even if she was, she wouldn't come all the way here to throw it away. Older women are more likely to keep it locked up somewhere. And it wouldn't be that scratched, because it's unlikely she would indulge in a great deal of activity. Unhappy, because why else would the need to throw it away arise in the first place?"

John gulped. "How can you tell it's a woman? Maybe a bloke fancies that sort of a thing."

Sherlock shrugged. "Balance of probability."

John shook his head in amazement. Well, at least Sherlock assumed it was amazement. Any other emotion (like shock at his absurdity, for instance) would be incredibly embarrassing, and Sherlock might have to bury _himself _in the dirt.

"Mate, you're brilliant." He took the ring from Sherlock and stared at it. "All that from a ring!"

Sherlock felt a funny sensation in his stomach. No one had ever praised him for his deduction before. To hear someone say something _nice _about the one talent he had (playing the violin didn't count, that was far too mundane) made him feel...different.

"Well, the fact that it's been buried hides a lot as well, it's fairly simple to deduce the rest-"

"Oh shut up," John muttered, "You don't have to be all modest around me. You're not the modest sort, I can tell. And that's fine. When you've got a brain like that, well. Why should you be?" He grinned.

There it was, that funny feeling. John was right, he _wasn't _modest. So why should he try to show John that he was? Pretence was stupid. There was no point trying to be something he wasn't around John, he could pick it up. John wasn't an idiot. Well, he probably _was_, but not so much as the rest. And that made all the difference, Sherlock supposed. And what was more, John had told him that it was _alright_. To not be modest. That was another first. This was a morning of firsts, Sherlock thought- and all of them brought about by this blonde haired, blue eyed, not-an-idiot boy sitting beside him.

* * *

><p>John was being an idiot.<p>

What must Sherlock think of him? He sounded like a gushing teenager when he praised him. Sherlock must be used to that sort of thing, right? But even as he said it, he realised that didn't exactly ring true. The hesitant look in his grey-blue eyes when he spoke, the slightest blush that graced his skin when John said those things- Sherlock probably had never been spoken to in this way before.

"I suppose," he said slowly, in that rumbling baritone. Even that voice seemed to match him- deep, rich, exactly what a prince from a medieval ballad would sound like. "But I regret to inform you, John, most people don't find me as brilliant as you do." He said it simply, like it was of no real consequence, but to John, the words were a punch in the gut. Surely, _surely_ someone had told Sherlock how talented he was? He absent mindedly fingered the rim of his shirt cuff. John couldn't help but notice the faint marks on his pale skin; innumerable scars and tiny puncture holes...a dark thought crept up inside him, but he banished it as soon as he came. Even if that was the case, it was too soon to confront him about. He might get offended and walk away, and John would never speak to this brilliant boy again.

"Well, maybe it's because of your penchant for showing off," John laughed.

"I _am _a show off," Sherlock replied doggedly. "That's what we do. And besides, didn't you say that with a mind like mine, I didn't have to be modest?" Then he pouted spectacularly with that bow-shaped mouth of his, and John could have laughed at how ridiculous he looked. Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly _not _in the habit of pouting; that much was clear.

"Oh, so you _have _been listening to me, then?" he grinned. "Alright, mate; but maybe you should show off in front of me, since I'm not likely to bite your head off about it."

Sherlock looked surprised; his pale eyes wide. "You're not?"

"'Course not. Haven't I already told you that I think you're brilliant?"

He nervously fiddled with his maroon tie. "You do?"

John rolled his eyes. "That's quite enough. Are you fishing for compliments, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, I don't get many, so, I thought I might as well get some from you, since they're probably the only ones I'm likely to get." There he went again; dropping things like that on him like they were commonplace, and ordinary; but John couldn't help but wonder about all the emotion laced in those words; even though Sherlock's pale face remained inexpressive, the only colour the grey-blue in his eyes and his dark chocolate curls. How could someone gifted with such a mind be so riddled in self-doubt? Sure, the bloke pretended to be an arrogant, obnoxious arsehole; and it some ways he definitely was. But John suspected that beneath all that bravado, he didn't know what to make of himself.

"Then yes, of course. You're brilliant. You make these- what do you call them- assumptions?"

"Deductions," Sherlock corrected, with a dramatic roll of his eyes. _This_, John was sure, was something he did very often. "They're only assumption if you're _assuming_, John. But I'm fairly confident that they're facts."

"_Deductions_," John muttered. "You do realise I'm complimenting you?" Sherlock gave him another one his almost-smiles, the one that transformed the cold reason on his face to something human and warm. "So, as I was saying- you make them in the blink of an eye, and it's really something. But what I don't get is, you're so smart- you could easily be top of the class. And yet here you are, hiding in the woods and refusing to attend classes."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Lessons are the bane of my existence, John. What's the _point _of knowing the things they teach you? My mind would probably delete them within a second. How does it matter to me if-"

"Wait, hold up." John held up a finger. "_Delete_? How the hell do you _delete _something from your mind?"

Sherlock looked at him with the expression John knew was his usual one, within hardly an hour of knowing him; the _my god you're such an idiot why am I even wasting my time with you_ look.

"Ordinary people fill their minds with all kinds of rubbish. Your mind is like an attic, John- and a fool fills it with every lumber he comes across. Which is why the information which may be useful to him get crowded out, or is mixed up with the idiocy _he _considers important. Your mind isn't elastic, you know. It is of the highest importance, then, John- _not _to have the useless things elbow out the important ones." He said it in that vaguely bored tone of his- and John might have found it annoying if it belonged to anyone else. But on Sherlock, well. On Sherlock it seemed right at home, and imagining him using a friendly, upbeat voice was almost laughable.

"And you think lessons are useless, do you?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied simply. "What the deuce is to me? What do I care who the president is, or when the war was fought, or that the sun goes around the earth-"

"The earth goes around the _sun_," John corrected, staring at him.

"So it does," Sherlock said impatiently. "What on earth will I do knowing that? If we went around the moon, or round and round the garden like a bloody teddy bear- what difference would it make to me? The only thing that matters is the work; and without it my brain rots." He finished with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at John, a challenge in those eyes of his.

John gaped at him. "But that's primary school stuff!" he spluttered. "_How _can you not know that?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Are you not listening to me?" he demanded. "I _told _you. Even if I did know, I've probably deleted it."

Then John started laughing. He couldn't help it. He couldn't believe how perfectly absurd Sherlock was; and how strangely endearing he was finding it. This boy was _ridiculous_.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, looking at him with a strange look of fear. John stopped laughing immediately; well at least he _tried_. Tiny spurts of mirth still burst from his lips.

"Nothing, nothing," he reassured him, wiping away a tear. "God damn it, Sherlock Holmes, you're ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Sherlock repeated, gaping at him comically, bow-shaped lips wide in shock. "You think I'm _ridiculous_? And just a moment ago you said I was brilliant."

"Oh, you're brilliant, you are. And that's one of the things that make you so ridiculous. I can't _believe _you don't know the earth goes around the sun."

Sherlock huffed. "Are we really going to talk about that again? I thought we had exhausted this topic."

"Exhausted it?" John laughed. "Mate, I've just found the gold mine for teasing you. You wait- I'm going to make a list of all the stuff you have no clue about and remind you of it every minute."

Sherlock threw him another dramatic eye roll. "How perfectly tedious," he muttered. "I'm going to start calling you an idiot again."

"Call me what you want, Sherlock. Doesn't mean I'll stop."

"Whatever," he replied, flopping back against the grass. The word sounded strangely juvenile on his lips; like it was odd hearing him say anything informal.

That was when the bell rang, and John heard the faint ring in the distance. He looked at Sherlock, his slender body stretched on the grass, hands thrown out on either side, slim fingers curled up, his shaggy hair messy.

"You're not going to come for the next class, are you?"

"Absolutely not. I am currently of the opinion that you're not an idiot, John. Do try to keep that image."

John smiled. "So what are you going to do until then? Hang out with some other friend?"

"I don't have friends."

John stared at him. Jesus, he needed to stop _saying _thing like that. He might end up hugging him or something. But he couldn't possibly be serious. No friends? At all? How on earth was that even possible? Then flashes of the day past before his eyes; that boy at the steps with the frizzy haired girl; Sarah and Edmund with their malicious laughter; and last of all Sherlock himself with his firm belief that nobody liked him. Of course. They probably thought he was some sort of freak; and his brilliance was the result of a defect in his brain, or some such rubbish as that. Of _course _no one had befriended him, and that made John incredibly angry. How could no one have noticed what a...what a..._genius _he was? That was probably _why _Sherlock was so rude and snarky; he hadn't had an opportunity to be nice to anyone. John refused to entertain the possibility that Sherlock was at fault here, and even though that seemed like a biased thought (and John prided himself on being fair) he couldn't help it.

"I'm your friend, aren't I?" he suddenly said.

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at him, and it seemed like an eternity; as those grey blue orbs searched his face, the expression in them inscrutable.

Then he turned away. "You should get to class."

John wanted to say something. John wanted to shout at him for being such an idiot, but then, there was always the possibility that this boy didn't like him, wasn't there? Everyone couldn't like him.

So he left.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched him go, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts, a thousand different deductions, assumptions, ideas, going round and round and round in his head, at lightning speed and blinding force. Sherlock clutched his curls in frustration; John Watson was so <em>confusing<em>.

John Watson who said he was brilliant.

John Watson who thought he was ridiculous.

John Watson who had said that he was his _friend_.

Surely Sherlock hadn't heard correctly. The other alternative was that John was terminally ill, with a tumour growing in his brain; tumours caused personality changes. This seemed more probable than the possibility that he had interest in being Sherlock's friend. _Nobody_ had ever offered friendship before, and Sherlock had never considered anyone to be worthy of that position anyway. Friends were useless. End of story.

And here was this..this..._paradox_. Innumerable facts and data, inevitably adding up to John Watson. It didn't make sense. What could John possibly see in him? John was the sort of friendly, kind person that everybody liked; what could he possibly want with _Sherlock_?

His head was spinning. And he felt strangely alone; the emptiness beside him where there had been a living, breathing person mere moments ago seemed like a physical thing. Then he told him to snap out of it. He was nobody's friend. And certainly not John's. _Sentiment_.

He needed...he needed...he needed a smoke.

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets, searching for the paper box of cigarettes and removed one, and took out his lighter. The lighter was actually Mycroft's. How he had risen to a position of such power in the government when he couldn't stop something as insignificant as a pick pocket, Sherlock had no idea.

Then he lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Oh, much better. _So much better_. This, at least, was normal. This he was used to, and this he could handle. He breathed in the smoke, blowing out as it filled him from inside, feeling, maybe, not as better as he should have, but at least, now he could concentrate on the smoke rings wafting above him and not a certain pair of deep blue eyes.

_Damn it_.

If a teacher found him here, smoking on the campus, he'd be expelled for sure. They'd say stupid things like 'he's a bad influence on the other students', 'one rotten apple ruins the whole cart', 'if he'd only stop being so disrespectful, Mr. Holmes,' and his parents would nod and agree that their son was a bitter disappointment to them. Then he'd be thrown out. Or maybe his parents would pay some more money and insist they keep him there. 'Beat him, if you must,' his father might say. 'Yes, yes,' his mother would join in. 'Anything to keep him in line.' 'You can understand what it would be for a family in our position to have this blotched all over the papers- we're willing to make any arrangements to keep our agreement in place..."

Sherlock tapped the cigarette and watched the ash falling off the tip.

But if he got expelled, he might never see John Watson again, now would he? That idea seemed far more unpleasant than it should have. He eyed the cigarette in his hands. It was almost over, anyway. He stubbed it beneath his foot.

**A/N: Hope you liked the chapter! :D Just a warning, though- there's going to mentions of substance abuse, etc, etc. So if you find it offensive, please don't read! Also, if updates are slow, occupy your time reading my other fanfic, Crash and Burn. Updates are much quicker on that one, since I'm mainly working on that. Anyway. Thank you very much for reading, and if you enjoyed that, I'd be reaaaallllyyyy happy if you reviewed. I write for you guys- so a little appreciation never goes amiss! Or constructive criticism- I'm cool with that too. : P**


	3. Chapter 3

:3:

**A/N: In which John gets Sherlock to eat something, and everyone's favourite Woman is introduced. ;)**

**PS: Thank you soooo much for your reviews and follows! They made my day. **

Sherlock stayed underneath that tree for a long time; itching to light another cigarette but worried that if he smoked too much John would smell it on his breath or his clothes and disapprove of him and maybe never speak to him again. This seemed like an incredibly abhorrent possibility; and what he found even more abhorrent was the fact that he was taking such an _interest _in him. He ignored these thoughts, however, because what if he deluded himself into thinking that John Watson himself was abhorrent and decided not to speak to him? Sherlock did not trust his brilliance at the moment.

So instead after three classes were over, he went in search of John. It was lunch break, so John would probably be in the cafeteria...eating. Like a normal person. Was it really fair for Sherlock to impose his presence on him? Sherlock began nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs while he walked towards the cafeteria, and that was when he noticed that his sleeves had been folded carelessly to his elbows and he groaned inwardly. _Bloody hell_. John must have noticed. More reasons to run away and _not _force John to endure him.

Nevertheless, he _did _reach the cafeteria, and he got several glances from the students; some of them curious, some hostile, but most of them weary. It didn't take long for him to pluck out John Watson from the multitude of idiots sitting there discussing idiotic things; he was just that _noticeable_. If there were a thousand John Watsons sitting there in the Hall, Sherlock would be able to point at _his_John Watson. Well, not _his, _because John didn't belong to him, he didn't mean it quite like that...(or did he?) Ugh.

That was when Sherlock stopped, and decided not to go to John; because he was laughing and talking to other people; and John looked quite _happy _and Sherlock felt this sudden fear that if he went there and stood in front of him, that smile would disappear, and if, _if _there was disappointment on that cheery face, Sherlock would not be able to take it. It had taken a great deal of effort to actually come here...into the presence of all these..._people_. So Sherlock stared at John for a few more seconds; and the group of laughing people around him, and then he turned around, and walked out.

_Of course, of course OF COURSE_, Sherlock thought frustratedly, almost venomously to himself, how could he have expected anything else? Those forty five minutes in the woods had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a bloody _exception_; and Sherlock was a fool to think they would ever happen again. He walked out, hands digging determinedly into his pockets, his fingers brushing the packet of cigarettes, and he finally didn't care enough to not light them then and there, but that was when he was interrupted by an exceedingly annoying voice that said, "Look who it is. It's Freak." Then Anderson blocked his path, grinning almost sleazily at him, apparently very pleased with himself for recognizing Sherlock on sight.

Any other day, he would have gladly stood there, listened to his myriad results, and then retaliated in kind; because it meant that he got to insult him with the least bit of effort. But today, right now, Sherlock was not in the mood, and if Anderson annoyed him, he might just knock out a few teeth, and this time he wouldn't hesitate because he didn't care anymore about what John would think of him.

"Anderson, please don't be an idiot. I know it takes you an enormous amount of effort, but do try. Now get out of my way."

Anderson just grinned back. "We saw you in the woods with that new boy. Didn't know you were a poof."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His insults were getting worse by the _minute_. "I don't have time for this," he muttered, and side tracked him. This time his idiotic girlfriend blocked him.

"He teach you how to shag, Freak? Didn't know you even knew what that was." She crossed her arms and smiled maliciously.

"If you've got nothing to discuss except my sex life, I pity you," Sherlock deadpanned. "I would have thought your own would have kept you occupied, considering you spent the last class performing fellatio on Anderson. Or scrubbing the classroom floors. In your defense, you'd be better suited for the latter."

Sadie (or was it Sally?) was trying very hard to maintain a straight face but this was evidently a great feat for her. Anderson, on the other hand, had gone as red as a fire truck and was quite possibly thinking of a clever come back. He was failing. Obviously.

"You little perv," Sally finally seethed. "Is that what you do when you miss classes? Spy on people?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "If you were a particularly interesting patch of mold, maybe," he shrugged. "Unfortunately the only thing 'particular' about you is your idiocy, which you're displaying with alarming blatancy; what with this preposterous idea that I am, even vaguely interested in your lives. So do yourselves a favor; and, excuse my eloquence; _fuck off_."

Sherlock was about to push past them, when he heard someone say, quite distinctly, "Is everything alright here?'

* * *

><p>John had been annoyed. And this was saying something, because he was actually a very calm and level headed person. But Sherlock Holmes <em>was annoying him<em>. Now, John wasn't arrogant enough to believe that Sherlock would like him as soon as he set eyes on him, but he _knew _he had been perfectly nice to that bloke, but then he refused to acknowledge his offer of friendship, and then he missed _three bloody classes_. How was that bloke still in school? John had hoped (and he was thoroughly annoyed with _himself _for hoping) that Sherlock would at least come for lunch. But no. He hadn't. He had half a mind to go and find him in the woods and drag him here and make him eat something and demand to know what was so terribly wrong with John Watson that he couldn't accept him as a friend when he _clearly didn't have any_.

But then he told himself that he (Sherlock) was being an obnoxious git and why inflate that head even more by begging him for his presence? Yes, it was true that all of a sudden everyone had seemed terribly boring and dull after those forty five minutes with Sherlock; Sherlock with his elegant other-worldliness and bright eyes and sharp, harsh edges and lines, Sherlock with his dramatic cheekbones and that low, rumbling baritone of a voice; everyone he saw after that just paled by comparison. But he sat still and talked with them, and refused to think about him.

But when the bell rang and he had to go for class, like an idiot, he went and wrapped a sandwich in a napkin and put it in his pocket because he didn't like the idea of him missing lunch, and even though he hated that he was doing it, he couldn't _bloody well help it_.

When John stepped outside, however, on to the lawns, he noticed Sherlock, alright, but he also saw two other people with him; a boy and the girl. They looked furious, and John didn't find it surprising, because they were with Sherlock; but he had got Sherlock a sodding sandwich, and he was going to force feed it to him if he had to. So he walked up to them, and he could _feel _the displeasure radiating off Sherlock.

"..._fuck off_."

"Is everything alright here?" he asked, slightly worried, because he hadn't heard Sherlock utter an expletive that viciously since he had come. He hoped, for the sake of his sanity, that these two weren't bullying him, because he would hate getting into a brawl on the first day of school itself.

Three heads swiveled in his direction. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"John," he rumbled, frowning at him, his lips slightly parting at the sight of him.

"Come here to pick your little boyfriend up?" the girl with the curly hair said scornfully.

"What?" John looked at her, his eyes narrowing.

"I expected you to try not to be an idiot in front of the new boy, Sally," Sherlock quipped. "It was your one chance to build a respectful image. Pity." He shook his head in mock disapproval. John couldn't help smiling at him.

"Cheers, mate."

The boy scowled at him. "The fact that the only friend the 'new boy' had made is you brings a few doubts to my head."

Sherlock looked unfazed with this thinly veiled insult, and was probably going to say something along the lines of 'You're an idiot' but John felt a sudden flare of anger and snapped at him, "I don't think it's any business of yours who I'm friends with. And the fact that you have nothing better to do than make stupid assumptions, well- that brings a few doubts to _my _head. And honestly, what was it that you had said, Sherlock? _Fuck off_."

Both the boy and girl made utterly scandalized expressions, in too much of a shock to form a proper reply.

"Indeed. Come along, John." Sherlock walked away, leaving both of them glowering after him.

"You could do better than him, mate!" the boy called after him. John rolled his eyes.

"Who were they?" John asked, as they involuntarily began moving towards the woods.

"What?" Sherlock turned around to look at him, as if just noticing his presence. He licked his lips. "Uh. They're-uh-I don't know. Idiots." He fiddled with his shirt cuffs; John had realized they were a nervous habit. But what he had to be nervous about, he didn't know.

"Sherlock, you think _everyone's _an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm asking you for their names, incidentally."

"The boy is Anderson, and the girl is Sally...something." He waved his hands dismissively. He needed to stop doing that. John found those fingers...distracting.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. "I forgot to give you this."

He stopped, putting his hand into his pocket to extract the sandwich, and he held it out to Sherlock, who was frowning at him, those grey-blue eyes confused.

"What is _that_?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Food," John answered. "You didn't come for lunch."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, still staring at John's hand, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, trying to deduce the bloody _sandwich_. He was evidently trying to figure out _why _John was giving him food. God, for a brilliant bloke...

"You didn't come for lunch, so you probably didn't _eat _so, I thought..." John trailed off, feeling a bit confused himself. Maybe this was bad idea. Maybe Sherlock would just think he was weird and run away from him.

"You brought me sandwich," he finally settled upon stating, his voice low and calculating.

"Yes..."

"Because I didn't come for lunch."

"Yes."

"That was..." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, "_Nice _of you." He said the word like it felt unfamiliar on his lips.

"It was bloody _self sacrificing,_" John muttered. "Here." He took Sherlock hand and placed the sandwich in his palm. His skin was cool to touch.

"But I'm not hungry."

"Eat the sodding sandwich, Sherlock."

"But I don't—'

"_Eat it_."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and he looked slightly fearful. His expression was almost comical. "Okay," he acquiescenced, unwrapping gingerly. He took a careful bite, watching John wearily.

John must have looked pleased to see him eating, because even Sherlock smiled slightly as he chewed. "You look happy," he observed.

"Yes. Don't take this personally, mate, but you're as thin as a rake. You could do with the extra calories."

"Digestion slows me down, John," he said grandly, sitting down underneath another tree.

"Slows you down? For _what_?"

Sherlock stared at him, appalled that John was asking such an idiotic question. "_Thinking_," he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Eating food prevents you from...thinking?" John stared at him. Then he asked himself why he was so surprised. This was _Sherlock_ they were talking about, for Christ's sake. Of course he would think the idea of something as mundane as _food_ to be an obstacle to the workings of his brilliant brain.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Sherlock stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, making a particularly pained face, and then swallowed it with great difficulty.

"Easy with the dramatics, yeah?" John muttered, standing up and brushing the grass off his trousers. "It's not poison."

Sherlock looked offended. "I'm not being _dramatic_. And where are you going?"

"To class." John held up his wrist so that Sherlock could see his silver wrist watch. "I'm already late. What with ensuring that you don't waste away from lack of food."

He rolled his eyes. "The human body can go for _plenty _of time without food, John. I doubt I would have _wasted away_ within two hours."

John put up his hands in surrender. "Whatever, mate. Are you sure you don't want to come to class?"

"Do we have biology?"

"No, English."

"Then the answer is yes, I am sure."

"Why would you come for biology?" John asked, amused.

"Mr. Mason said he would bring frogs for the next experiment. I would have—"

"Stolen a couple of frogs," John finished, trying to suppress a smile. "Am I wrong?" He mimicked the same tone Sherlock had used while using the same phrase that very morning. He couldn't resist. It was so _easy _teasing Sherlock.

Sherlock gaped at him, that ridiculous bow of a mouth open wide. "I wouldn't do that," he muttered sheepishly, biting his lip guiltily.

"Yeah, you would," this time John laughed. "See you later. Don't go home without me."

He left for class.

* * *

><p><em>Don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home...<em>

John's parting words swirled round and round in Sherlock's head, giving him that strange, fuzzy feeling he was becoming alarmingly familiar with, and which he was learning to associate with John Watson. Sherlock was confused again, and he _hated _being confused, because the purpose of his life was to know everything important, so he wouldn't have to face being _confused_. Life was an equation, and Sherlock knew how to solve it, but then an unexpected variable had been dropped into it out of nowhere, and now neither sides of the equation matched.

This was _detestable_.

Sherlock decided that he sort of kind of liked John Watson. Because this surprised him a great deal, he also decided to make a list to figure out _why _he liked him; this would make things easier to understand

1. John Watson had called him 'brilliant'

2. John Watson had gotten him a sandwich. ( A terrible sandwich, obviously; and he wasn't even remotely hungry, but he had noticed that Sherlock hadn't _eaten_; his _parents _never remembered to feed him)

3. John Watson knew that he would steal frogs from Mr. Mason's class and he hadn't been disgusted, abhorred, or shocked.

4. John Watson had nice eyes.

The fourth point was irrelevant, and besides, it wasn't even true (or so Sherlock told himself, because well, his eyes weren't _terrible_, but they weren't that fantastic either, they were just a pair of fairly normal dark blue eyes which were, in fact a nice shade, but how did it matter anyway.); it was merely there for the purpose of balance; so that there would be an even number of things on the list.

But the rest of them were true enough, and Sherlock decided to be content with that. So he stacked it into an obscure corner of his Mind Palace, so that if he ever began to second guess his judgment again, he could refer to those four points. The fourth was irrelevant, of course. But it was always useful to remember.

Just as John had demanded, Sherlock did not, indeed, go home without him. He slung his bag over his shoulder and went to 11B where John had had his tedious class, to call him and ask him if he would like Sherlock to walk him to the station.

But when he got there, he found John leaning against the wall outside the classroom, talking to a girl.

Sherlock recognized her only vaguely; he knew she was part of this class, and he knew there was nothing particularly interesting or compelling about her, but John was obviously a terrible judge of character, because he was laughing at something she had said and she was just ceaselessly _touching _him and Sherlock couldn't stand it.

He was being crazy, irrational, and completely illogical, and more importantly, he was being an idiot. He could easily just stand there and wait politely for John to finish whatever inane conversation he would be having with that airhead of a girl; but at that moment, Sherlock figured that the only alternative was to go home without him. He tried not to feel guilty. It was tougher than he thought it would be. He considered going back, and even turned around a few times, but then that girl's stupid face would swim in front of his eyes and he would turn right around and keep walking.

He noticed a swanky black car parked at the gate in front, and even though everyone in this school probably had a swanky black car, _this _one was evidently Mycroft's. Obviously. He had retaliated to Sherlock's refusal to be dropped off with this forceful picking up. Sherlock could have run away, and taken the bus, or a taxi, or _anything_, but he didn't want to run into John again and he had an odd feeling that the car would trail behind him.

So he stomped to the car and opened the door with far more force than necessary, and tumbled into the backseat.

"You're being tiresome again," he mumbled, tucking his knees under his chin and wrapping his arms around his calves.

"I am under no doubt that I am," Mycroft replied smoothly, like he always did. He had a bloody answer for everything. "How was school?"

Sherlock flopped back dramatically, closing his eyes. "Tedious."

This wasn't completely true. School had been bloody fantastic today, until, well...well, that last bit had messed things up.

Mycroft locked eyes with him in rear view mirror, his pale eyes scrutinizing him. Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "What?" he snapped.

Mycroft shrugged. "Nothing. You missed class today again, Sherlock."

"If you wouldn't insist on putting me there on the first place, we wouldn't even be _having _this conversation." He loosened his tie, tugging almost forcefully on the thin scrap of material.

"Sherlock, let's not rehash this. You have to go to school." The car swerved left, entering the tree lined avenue that led into their estate.

Sherlock stared sullenly out the window, catching only a fleeting glance of a girl leaning against the fence in front of one of the houses.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

Mycroft pushed the brakes. "What _is _it, Sherlock?" he asked, tiredly.

"I need to get out. I've seen someone. I'll come home later."

Mycroft's lips turned down at the corners in disapproval. "Is it that Adler girl?"

Sherlock gave a odd, one shouldered shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe it's a serial murderer, and we're running off to plan a killing spree. I'll see you later, Mycroft." He opened the door and stepped out. Mycroft only sighed, exceptionally irritated, and drove off.

* * *

><p>Irene smirked at him as he walked up to her.<p>

She leaned her shoulder against the fence, her bright red lipsticked lips turning up in a smile. If you looked at Sherlock and Irene standing next to each other; you could almost mistake them for siblings. The same high cheekbones, the silvery blue eyes, the dark hair, the pale skin; the regal good looks. But whereas Sherlock would have looked at place between the pages of a romantic sonnet, being recited against the background of Vivaldi, Irene Adler had been crafted to be the heroine of an erotic novel, amidst loud rock music and guitar riffs.

Irene was dressed in tiny denim shorts, her slim legs ending in a pair of scruffy black boots, her cropped tank top exposing several inches of her stomach, and the sparkly diamond pierced in her navel; a cigarette was gripped lightly between her fingers, and she puffed out some smoke slowly, right in Sherlock's face.

"Hello, darling," she drawled. "Come to see me?" She was a few years older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, an inch or two shorter than Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned against the fence behind her. "I wanted to speak to you."

She raised a dark eyebrow. "Speak to me? What about, love?"

She inhaled some more smoke.

"I met a boy today," he murmured, stroking his bottom lip with one long, index finger.

She grinned. "A boy? What kind of boy?"

"That's what I'm confused about. I don't know what kind of boy he is."

"Sherlock Holmes, confused? That's a first."

She stepped in front of him this time, uncomfortably close, like always; plucking the cigarette from her mouth and slipping it inside Sherlock's lips. It was still slightly wet at the tip. "Have a smoke and clear your head." He looked down at her, the cigarette dangling from his mouth; he could smell her familiar scent; expensive perfume mixed with cheap alcohol.

He laced it between his fingers and inhaled. "I've been trying to," he explained. "It's been proving difficult."

Her grey eyes sparkled with amusement. "What's his name?"

"John. John Watson," Sherlock said the same slowly, relishing the feel of it on his tongue. _John John John John._

"Mmm," she trailed her index finger down his chest. "Such a mundane name. Not quite as posh as Sherlock Holmes."

"It's a good name," Sherlock stiffened under her touch, slightly uncomfortable, like he always was; but she didn't notice or care. She rarely did. But she was one of the few people who didn't run away from him on sight, and she didn't make small talk. So he tolerated her. "Steady. Solid."

"Good looking bloke?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess." He ran a hand through his curls. "He's not even _that _remarkable," he said loudly. "And I've just known him for a day. I'm being an idiot."

"Darling. We're all idiots when it comes to love," she removed the cigarette from his lips, inhaled, and popped it back inside his mouth.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he scoffed.

_One nice word about someone and now he was in love? Irene Adler was more of an idiot than he thought_.

She blew out the smoke, staring lazily at him. "What do you want from me, Sherlock? Advice? Stop being a prat and be nice to him."

"I was _very _nice to him."

Irene laughed. "I doubt that, darling. You were probably nice-_er _than you are to most people, and because you're so much of a wanker, I don't think that's any accomplishment."

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not a wanker."

"Oh, yes you are." She ran a thumb down the side of his face, dragging down the corner of his bottom lip. "Now, run along home, Holmes. And give Johnny Boy a call."

This time Sherlock slipped the cigarette into her lips. "I don't have his number," he argued.

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" he pale eyes twinkled.

Sherlock licked his lips. "No, not really."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Fine."

Then she gripped his tie in her hands, pulling him down, and she spread the other palm on his midsection, pushing him against the fence, and smashed her lips to his. Sherlock gripped the cold metal rods behind him, so hard his knucle went white, screwing his eyes shut allowing her to kiss him, because it seemed like he should give her _something _in return for tolerating his company. She skimmed the bottom of his lip with her tongue, but Sherlock did not open his mouth, and that was when she pulled away.

"Such a tease, Sherlock. I hope you put those fantastic lips to use and kiss this boy you're so confused about." She smirked.

The sentence caused Sherlock's heart to make an involuntarily leap inside his chest, but he ignored it. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered, wiping the lipstick off his mouth.

"Sherlock Holmes, you just ran out of your brother's posh car to tell me that you made a friend today," She pulled his hand away from his lips and dragged her own fingers across them instead, making quick work of the red smudge. "_You're _the one being ridiculous. Now go home."

And Sherlock did go home after that, smelling of Irene's perfume and her second hand smoke, thinking about how she had proposed he put his 'bloody fantastic' lips to good use. He wondered idly if John thought his lips were bloody fantastic. Then he started thinking about _John's _lips and realised _they _were bloody fantastic and he decided to add it to the list of reasons he liked him.

Then he shook his head to rid himself of those sinful thoughts.

Irene had been right, after all. He _was _being ridiculous.

**A/N: Well, there you have it folks. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. **

**If you liked that, pleeeeeeaaaaaase review! That would be as bloody fantastic as Benedict Cumberbatch's lips. ;-)**

**Until later. Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Greetings, friends! Finally, a new chapter. **** This may seem a bit slow, but I needed to put some facts in place for this story to progress! Don't get bored, and move on to the next chapter, (when I post it)- I promise it's fun and cute and abundant in Johnlock loveliness. **

**Anway. Yeah. So here's the chapter. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>John wasn't particularly interested in what Sarah had to say. He hadn't liked her much since her snarky comment about Sherlock, but he didn't want to be rude, either, so he obliged and spoke to her, about stupid things like mid-term dances or whether he played rugby or football. In response to her question, actually, he played football but enjoyed rugby more. But he didn't reply because he didn't think giving her an answer was a necessity.<p>

But the minutes kept on going by and John gave up to look from the corner of his eye or out the window, whilst pretending to do something completely different, because clearly Sherlock was nowhere around. Then he gave some excuse to Sarah which he couldn't even remember himself, because it was probably as idiotic as their conversation had been. Then he left, and he walked down the corridor to see if Sherlock was lurking in some corner of a locker, or a classroom, or maybe even the washroom- _anywhere_, in fact, but he couldn't find him at all. He asked a whole bunch of people whether they had seen him, or not, but they just looked at him strangely and walked on.

The worst part was seeing Sally and her arsehole boyfriend, who smirked and exchanged knowing glances when they saw John calling for Sherlock. John wanted to knock both their heads together.

So then he went outside, and ran around the ground like a madman, and then he went into the woods, under that big tree (he would never forget it now) but he _could not find him_. John checked his watch. 4:00, and class was over at 3:15. Finally John had to face the inevitable conclusion that Sherlock had, indeed, gone home without him.

_Then _John sat down for a few seconds under the tree, partly because he was tired of running around looking for him, and partly because he suddenly felt miserable.

It had been good day, he thought. John had thought that he would be unerringly lonely on the first day of school, but then he met Sherlock and he was glad, because he was an obnoxious arse but he was also wonderful, and John had enjoyed his company. But now John was doubting it, because hadn't Sherlock told him that very morning that he did not have friends? So, as hard as John may try to convince himself, Sherlock obviously did not care for him very much at all.

So he did the things he would have done whether he had met Sherlock today or not; he picked his sister up from school, and he took a train, and after the depressing journey home which was made only slightly more entertaining with his sister's monologue about how lovely her day had been, he finally came home.

Then his mother asked him, "How was your day?" and she gave him his favourite lunch, and he said, "It was wonderful."

Which was actually, if he thought about it, quite true; it _had _been wonderful, but maybe John was thinking far too ahead of himself, and he wondered if maybe tomorrow he should ask Sherlock why he had just run off home without even informing John, when they had clearly agreed that they would go home together.

Then it dawned upon John that Sherlock had never technically _agreed _to this, that he had just stared at John when he had proposed, no _told _him, so maybe Sherlock didn't like being told to do something?

He didn't know. He pushed his half eaten plate of food away, and discretely slid it on the floor for Gladstone to devour, and tumbled into his bed because he didn't know what else to do.

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><p>When Sherlock got home, surprisingly, his parents were home. His father was seated on the couch, wearing one of his particularly boring grey suits, and a grey tie, (Sherlock <em>detested <em>ties, almost as much as he detested his father) and everything about him was so boring and dull that Sherlock didn't even stop to say hello; he just proceeded to the stairs to fall asleep in his bed. But then his father called him back.

"Now, wait just a moment, young man," he said. So Sherlock sighed, and rolled his eyes and turned around, glaring at the back of his father's head.

"What?" he snapped.

"Don't take that tone with your father, Sherlock." And then his mother came out of nowhere, also dressed in a boring suit, her boring glasses perched on her boring nose.

"What tone?" he asked, in that vaguely uninterested voice of his. But in reality, he was not _vaguely _uninterested. He was not interested at all in conversing with his parents.

"That tone that you just used. Sherlock, please stand in front of us. Refusing eye contact is a sign of cowardice." His father folded up the newspaper that he was pretending to read and didn't even turn around.

Sherlock longed to pick something up and throw it at him, because he was many loathsome, detestable things, but he was certainly not a _coward_. And his father was in no position to say that he was, because he was the most cowardly person he had seen in his life. But he didn't, because Mycroft would be disappointed in him. Well, not that he cared greatly for his opinion; he didn't care even remotely about it, but Mycroft expected him to do something drastic like that and Sherlock did not want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He was right far too often and this had to be prevented.

So he balled his fists by his side and walked in front of his father and then asked again, "What?"

"Sherlock, stop being rude. Sit down, we wish to speak to you." His mother sniffed and sat down next to his father. Then they surveyed him with slight disgust and slight weariness on their faces, like Sherlock was a particularly slimy, venomous snake that they had to confront and were not happy about. Sherlock intimidated them, he knew; but as parents they believed that they were in a position of authority so they could not allow this.

He sat down. "Will you please tell me what the both of you are doing here in the middle of the day when you should obviously be working doing the things you normally do? Talking to me isn't one of them."

"This passive aggressive behaviour will not do, young man," his father always called him 'young man'. Like saying his name would reiterate the fact that Sherlock was in some way related to him, which his father normally didn't like admitting to.

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. He was not greatly fond of Mycroft, obviously; but whenever his parents insisted on these tedious conversations, Mycroft was always around and he was the one who would inevitably put an end to them by saying inane things like 'Sherlock is tired' or 'Sherlock has homework to do' which were never true and downright funny, because Sherlock was rarely tired and he never did his homework. But Mycroft's cool, polite voice did wonders on his parents and he never had to endure it longer than necessary. But today Mycroft was not at home. This complicated matters.

"Mycroft is working and doing useful things because he is mature, Sherlock. Unlike you." His mother stared stonily at him.

"Is there a point to this discussion, Mother?" Sherlock doubted calling her by her name would make any difference.

"You've missed your classes again today. And the one class you _did _go to, you were thrown out; for being disrespectful to the teacher concerned. Explain yourself." His father folded his hands in his lap and looked at Sherlock with polite interest.

Sherlock sighed. "What would you like me to explain?"

"Why did you do this?"

"Why do you think?"

"Don't answer a question with a question."

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"Were you smoking?"

"Irrelevant to this discussion."

"Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes."

Both his parents sighed and shook their heads. "We try very hard to inculcate certain values in you, Sherlock. But you refuse to adhere to them. See how well we have done with Mycroft; then why are we failing with you?" His mother tried to look devastated. She could not manage this.

"This may come as a surprise to you," Sherlock replied, standing up. "But I don't want to speak to either of you. Good afternoon."

Then he turned around and walked away, and his parents did not stop him. Because his parents did not care.

Sherlock navigated through the scientific and chemical debris that was his room, and collapsed on his bed, fully clothed.

Today was turning out to be a most _tiresome _day, no matter how fantastically it had started. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, now allowing himself to think about John. If he closed his eyes, he could picture him perfectly; with his roundish face and strong jaw, his messy, dirty blonde hair, and his eyes; dark blue and bright and _intelligent_.

What should he do? He desperately wanted to hear his voice. It seemed like _ages _ago since he had heard him speak, although in reality it had been roughly 2 hours and 17 minutes. Sherlock had counted.

He would never call John to his house when his parents were home, he decided. The consequences of that would be devastating. His parents would be shocked to see that Sherlock had succeeded in communicating with another intelligent life form, and they would be all over him like the plague. Asking him silly questions about what they talked about, or whether Sherlock had a girlfriend; and they would scare him off and he would never see him again.

It would also not do for him to see Mycroft. Mycroft had the most terrible effect on people. This was probably because he was so terrible himself.

Sherlock grabbed his skull from the beside table and stared at the yellow bone and the hollow sockets. Sherlock adored the skull. Well, 'adore' was a strong word. Sherlock found the skull more tolerable than most members of the human race. Today he held the skull in his hands and turned it over and looked at it from every possible angle and couldn't find _what _he had found so interesting about it in the first place. It was just a _bloody skull_.

Sherlock knew how to procure John's number. It would actually be laughably easy. But this was not the root of the problem. The root of the problem was the question as to whether John wanted to speak to him at all. Sherlock had been...slightly unstable, when he had seen John with that stupid girl, but now all he could think about was that sodding sandwich that John had forcibly made him eat and all his brain could manage was _john john john john _. Not hearing his voice until the next day seemed an impossible task and Sherlock didn't know if he could manage it.

In truth, the answer was in the negative.

But Sherlock had broken a promise, and with John's sense of loyalty (Clearly; the way he had swooped in on Anderson and Sally because he had the idea that Sherlock was being threatened) he deduced that this would not be taken lightly. The idea that John would possibly _cease _interaction with Sherlock based on this horrific lapse of judgement was terrifying. At the moment, Sherlock could not comprehend the possibility of not having John Watson to look forward to the next day.

Oh, Sherlock _knew_. He knew that this kind of fixation on a person was dangerous. But he was suddenly fascinated with him and everything he had done that day and _he needed to speak to John and apologise_.

He grabbed his phone and dialled a number.

"Sherlock, I do hope you are not calling to inform me that you have burnt down the school building or strangled the neighbour's cat or something equally tiresome." Mycroft answered lazily.

"Don't be a fool, Mycroft. I don't care enough for either of those things to actually take the effort to cause _harm _to them. No, I want a favour from you."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock could _hear _the smirk from the other end of the line. _Ugh. This was degrading. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes. John._

"Don't make me repeat myself. You know I detest repetitions. You heard me. Will you do it or not?"

"Depending on whether the favour involves theft of government property, or any kind of felony, and depending on how nicely you ask, we'll see."

"It doesn't involve either of those things. In fact, it is absolutely danger free and nobody will get arrested. And how nicely am I supposed to ask?"

"I would like you to use the words, 'Could you please do me a favor please, Mycroft, please?"

"That sentence is redundant. What's the point of using the word 'please' so many times?"

"Consider it payback, brother mine. Also, it's a lovely thing to imagine you grovelling."

"I am not going to _grovel_."

"Then you may ask someone else to perform this favour for you."

"Why are you so awful?"

"Goodbye, Sherlock..." his voice trailed off.

"Wait."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. He was going to _kill _his brother as soon as he obtained a viable murder weapon. Poison, while available in abundance in this very room, was a relatively painless way to go. No, he would require something better.

"Could you _please _do me a favour, Mycroft?"

"Fair enough. What do you need?" Mycroft's tone had become its usual clipped, let's-do-business one.

"I need you to get me a number."

* * *

><p>John was doing his homework when his mother called him from downstairs.<p>

"John! It's for you, love!"

John climbed down. "Who is it?" he asked, approaching his mother, who was gripping the receiver tightly.

"I forgot; it's a fancy, posh name. Something with S?"

_Sherlock_.

John snatched the phone from her with rather more force than required and literally shouted into the receiver, "Hello?"

There was silence at the other end for a few seconds. If John listened very closely, he could hear the distinct sound of someone breathing.

"Hello?" he said again uncertainly.

"John." And just like that, with just one word, Sherlock's deep, luxuriant voice washed over him and he breathed a sigh of relief because _Sherlock had called him_.

Then he suddenly snapped, "How did you get my number?" He realised that sounded a bit rude, but then again; Sherlock had waltzed off home without him. He was entitled to a bit of rudeness, he reasoned.

"My brother got it for me," he said simply; like he was stating a fact, like his number was an apple on a tree and this brother of his had plucked it and handed it to Sherlock.

"You have a brother?" John supposed there were many more pertinent questions to ask, like _who the bloody hell_ was _his brother_, but this tumbled out of his mouth instead.

John could almost hear the eye roll.

"Yes. And you should know that he is a terrible topic of discussion, so the sooner we abandon it, the better."

_Hmm. Sibling Rivalry? Interesting_. "So. I'm guessing you called because you have something far more interesting to discuss?" John didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice; because he remembered that he was supposed to be _pissed _with Sherlock.

Sherlock would be nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs, he thought.

"Uh. Well." This was new and funny to John, because in all of the two hours he had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never once stammered.

"Go on," he encouraged, leaning against the wall leisurely. "I've got all day."

"I...called to...well. Uh. Apologise."

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that. Care to repeat it?" Christ, this was fun. He felt bad about teasing Sherlock, (it was so easy, he thought; partly because Sherlock didn't quite understand the concept of a 'joke' and consequently ended up taking everything quite seriously) but he would make it up to Sherlock by...by...what exactly would he do? His mind considered a variety of possibilities, and each of them more appallingly inappropriate than the last. _Where the hell had they come from?_

"John, you're not making this any easier," Sherlock sounded like a sullen teenager, and as pissed as John was, he couldn't help but find it so endearingly _adorable_.

"I never planned to."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh god. What else do I say? I promised you that I wouldn't go home without you and I did and I feel terrible and stupid and I'm sorry. Is this good enough for you?"

And then John's mouth dropped open, because Sherlock had said it all in one desperate rush, and he actually sounded _hurt _and _sad _and John didn't even know how he could tell all that from one sentence, but he knew that this apology had taken a tremendous amount of effort from his part and suddenly it became all-consumingly important to him that make Sherlock see that _it was okay_.

"It's alright," he said hastily. "it's fine, really. It's okay."

"Okay?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, it's okay. You can calm down now."

"I am very calm."

"Of course you are," John muttered under his breath with the full intention of Sherlock hearing.

"Is that sarcasm?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. I'm not very good with sarcasm."

"I can see that."

"Are you being sarcastic again?"

John smiled, in spite of himself. "No, I'm not. But I have to go and finish homework."

"_Homework_?" Sherlock spat it out like it was a dirty word. "Why on earth would you waste your time with _that_?"

"Not all of us are geniuses, mate. We unfortunate idiots have to make our way in the world doing tiresome, mundane things like _homework_."

"I don't think you're an idiot. Very well, go do this homework that you speak so highly of."

"Cool. Bye."

"We're okay?" Sherlock asked, his voice once again uncertain and weary.

"'Course we are."

"And I will see you tomorrow in school?"

John rolled his eyes and grinned at the same time. "Yes, of course you will."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said brightly, and hung up.

John stared at the receiver in hand. Sherlock thought meeting John the next day would be 'brilliant.'

Brilliant.

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><p>Mycroft stared curiously at the file open in front of him on the computer and<em> thought<em>.

Today had been an exceedingly strange day. It had started out fairly normal, with a fairly normal squabble with Sherlock, and the fairly normal event of Sherlock being tiresome and refusing to be dropped off, and then he had gone to work, which was as usual, dull. Sherlock had missed most of his classes, which was also not out of the ordinary.

So, naturally, it came as a surprise when Sherlock called him with this one request: _Get me a number_. And whose number was it? An unremarkable, average looking 16 year old boy by the name of John Watson.

Having a brother like Sherlock, Mycroft considered a plethora of explanations for this odd behaviour, the first being the most believable; John Watson had committed a murder. Although it was the most convincing, nothing on his record would show that he had come even close to taking someone's life. This was why it was so strange that Sherlock would find him even remotely interesting.

He had lived a fairly ordinary life until this point; gone to a decent school a train ride away, then gotten a scholarship from there and transferred to Sherlock's fairly expensive public school instead. He was bright, he guessed; academically, at least; had a single mother, a younger sister, his father had been in the Army (interesting) and had not committed any felonies till date.

Which all begged the question of _why_.

Sherlock had never had a friend in his entire life. The golden rule that he lived by was 'Everyone is an Idiot except me and occasionally Mycroft." Even the last bit he detested to admit. But the fact of the matter was that Sherlock _did _believe in a higher power, the only difference being that in this case, it was himself. Sherlock thought himself to be exceptionally, impossibly clever and he had never displayed _any _inclination towards interacting with _people_. He was anti-social in the extreme, and while all the doctors and specialists and experts had deemed his IQ higher than most adults, he was remarkably ignorant about human nature. So, the end result being; _Sherlock did not have friends_.

Mycroft decided to not come to the conclusion that Sherlock had made this boy his friend. Possibly, this was some sort of twisted experiment which would last for a few days. Then at the end of the week, the Sherlock he knew would return to dissecting frogs and examining poisonous fungi in his room for hours on end.

Yet Mycroft could not simply assume that this friendship would be bad for his brother. He rather hoped that he _was _wrong and Sherlock had finally found someone he found agreeable and was cultivating a _relationship_. True, Mycroft did not put any importance _in _these so called relationships, yet only an idiot would fail to notice that his brother was desperately lonely.

And although he cared for his brother in his own way, he had been unsuccessful in driving away that loneliness that had made Sherlock into who he was; including the drugs. _Especially _the drugs.

He wondered if Sherlock actually had the ability to sustain the relationship he had begun, assuming if he had begun it all. Most people didn't take too kindly too insults, and Sherlock usually conversed in insults.

Maybe it was an experiment, after all.

For Sherlock's sake, he hoped he was wrong.

**A/N: I know, I know. It's shorter than my previous chapters and probably extremely boring. But hang on tight! Interesting things are to follow in the next chapter. Good things come to those who wait. (and yes, that includes smut. :D )**

**So, please review if you enjoyed that, because, I shit you not- **_**they make my frickin' day**_**.**

**(Review if you didn't enjoy it too, a review is a review haha lol.)**

**Have a good week, darlings. :) Oh, and about that review...**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Truth be told, I hadn't planned on posting this chapter so early; I have TONS of studying to do, what with upcoming finals, (UGH SCHOOL SUCKS) but I got so much of love from your reviews that I felt like I just **_**had **_**to get you a chapter to thank you all for your appreciation.(So, incidentally, more reviews= faster updates)**

**So even though you all are lovely and deserve super-tight hugs, but..er...don't get used to this early-update business...I'll just have to study more as the days go on and updates will get slower, but I **_**promise **_**I will not abandon this story. I love it as much as you guys do, and I plan on churning out a great fic.**

**Just another note on the reviews; I have replied to all of them, because they were so sweet, except you lot who haven't signed in. -.- I really love thanking you for typing out a few words, but it's kind of hard when you don't have an account. Nevertheless, love to you guys too. (Hugs) :***

**I'll stop babbling now. Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock woke up that morning with a most curious sensation in his chest. He felt <em>excited <em>about something, and it took him a few seconds to pin point exactly what he was feeling so strongly about.

It took him less than a few seconds, actually. _John_.

Sherlock rarely woke up before someone had actually knocked his door down, but today was different. Today he had an actual _reason _to go to school, the previous one being four years ago when that senior girl had killed herself and Sherlock had decreed that it was not a suicide. It was food poisoning, actually, and the police had realised that a month after Sherlock had said so, which was sixteen hours after she had been declared dead. Ugh. People were so _stupid_. They'd get on so much better if they just agreed with everything he said.

Sherlock pulled over his uniform, but was annoyed to find that his tie had been untied from the usual knot he simply pulled over his head. He didn't want to get sent out of class today (he probably _would _be, though, but he hoped that it would be for something more dramatic and not because _he hadn't worn his tie_.) So he stuffed it in his pocket instead, and grabbed his bag, ready to sprint down the stairs- when he paused for a moment to _think _about the...needles stuffed right at the bottom of his bag and he considered, only for a moment, should he remove them?_ If John saw them_...but no. _Too soon. _He didn't need them, not now...but...it was too soon.

He ran down the stairs.

Mycroft peered at him over the newspaper he was reading as Sherlock stood over the dining table, scrunching his nose distastefully at the breakfast that had been laid out.

"You're up early today," he quipped.

"_What _an _excellent _observation, Mycroft. It's hardly a mystery to me that the security of the free world lies in your hands." He grabbed some toast from the plate and munched.

"I hope you know that I have recorded you begging me for a favour yesterday, and I intend to use it against you," Mycroft replied, unperturbed.

Sherlock scowled. "Recording of telephone conversations is illegal."

"Not if one party is aware of it, it isn't." Mycroft smiled at him; the mocking smile that both Holmes brothers had perfected over the years.

"I hope you're dropping me off today," Sherlock said primly, steering the conversation in a different direction.

Mycroft raised both his eyebrows, immediately lowering the newspaper. "You want me to drop you off?"

Sherlock smirked. It was such a lovely thing to catch Mycroft off guard. "Yes. Can you? Or will you leave me to fend for myself in _public transport_?" He said the word 'public transport' like one would say 'rancid faces'.

Mycroft kept looking at him curiously. "I am finding this entire situation highly unbelievable. Tell me-" he leaned forward, resting his chin on slender, interlaced fingers. "Does this uncharacteristic behaviour have something to do with John Watson?"

Sherlock groaned. _Of course Mycroft would react like this._

"It was a mistake to ask you," he grumbled, tearing off the toast like a rabid wolf. "He's just someone I know." This seemed like a most ridiculous description of John, but Sherlock couldn't possibly have Mycroft making assumptions and _saying _things. This...thing...whatever...he had with John, was like a fragile and delicate secret that he wanted to keep with himself, lest it be shattered by someone's words or prying eyes.

"A boy whose number you begged for, _from me_. I could have had your conversation recorded, but I didn't. Thanks are in store, I think. Social convention, you see, brother mine."

"That would have been an invasion of privacy."

"An offense you know very well I will not be arrested for."

"Mycroft, I called him to ask about his sister. She was tragically murdered last year and everyone assumes it's suicide. I think differently." Sherlock didn't even flinch once while saying this blatant lie, but the skepticism on Mycroft's face did not go amiss.

"I see," he replied coolly, folding the newspaper, only the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. Sherlock _detested _that smirk. He wanted that smirk to be gone _at once_, but anything he said that would result in that would prove that he was lying a second ago, so he merely gritted his teeth and finished the rest of his toast. "Let's drop you off."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had never been so glad to come to school in his life.<p>

But, like he had earlier mused; today was different.

He had stepped out of the car, eager to run down the field and look for John, but Mycroft rolled down the window and called him just before he could.

"Sherlock," he said, sombrely. Sherlock whipped his head around.

"What?" he snapped.

"If you have a reason for attending classes, please attend them. I don't want our parents paying an unnecessary visit to your school again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock frowned at him, trying to deduce why exactly Mycroft was saying this. If he stared getting sentimental at a simple _mention _of Sherlock with another person...ugh. This was going in a most sickening direction.

"Yes," he replied, trying to keep the snappishness out of his voice. "I get it. I'll see you later."

Then he ran off.

He had to wait in class for a few minutes before he saw John. He walked into class, looking especially dishevelled, not at all like the neat and tidy self he had displayed to Sherlock yesterday. This morning he hadn't taken the train, been dropped off by his mother, presumably, and he had played rugby this morning, not football. Obviously enjoyed himself more. He had forgotten to feed his dog this morning, then, too.

"Hey," he greeted him, and just like that, all of Sherlock's thought processes came to a grinding halt. John Watson had walked into that empty classroom, and suddenly it _wasn't _an empty classroom, it was like..it was like...it was something wonderful and Sherlock quite possibly felt the beginnings of sentiment, which he should have felt disgusted by, but this time, today, it just felt right.

"Hi," Sherlock said, and his voice sounded unnaturally shrill to his ears.

John dropped into the seat next to him, depositing his bag with a loud _thunk _on the floor next to him.

"So I hope you don't run away home without me today." John grinned at him, and Sherlock mentally catalogued that grin into his mind palace, because it was the most wonderful thing he had seen for a while. _Stop it_, he told himself. _This is getting out of hand_.

Sherlock ran a hand nervously through his hair. "I assume you're joking?" he asked.

John laughed. "God, yes, Sherlock. Of course I'm joking." Then his gaze went down to Sherlock's bare neck.

"Where's your tie?" he asked.

Sherlock made a face. "I don't wear ties," he announced.

"Yes you do. You wore one yesterday. Where is it?"

Sherlock's nose twitched. "I don't have it," he replied grandly.

"Liar," John grinned. "You don't know how to wear a tie, do you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to look offended. "Yes I do," he insisted. "I'm just _choosing _not to wear a tie. It's a conscious decision on my part."

"Give me your tie, Sherlock." John held out his hand.

"What?"

"Give me your tie. I'll do it for you."

Sherlock licked his lips, staring for a few seconds at John's outstretched hand. Then, like a little child caught with his hand stuck in the proverbial cookie jar, extracted his tie from his pocket and placed it on John's palm.

"Knew it," John looked very pleased with himself. Sherlock didn't mind it quite so much. Pleased John was a sight to behold. "Come closer."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked right into John's dark blue eyes. He felt his mouth dry.

"I can't tie this around your neck when you're five feet away from me. Come closer."

"Okay," Sherlock said, seemingly capable of only saying one word. He scooted his chair closer and stretched his neck out.

"Mmm," John muttered approvingly, and looped the material around his neck, tying it briskly. Sherlock felt a most curious sensation in his stomach when John's warm fingers would occasionally brush against skin. He half hoped that John would just tug the tie and pull him closer and then—

"There you go," John said, pulling Sherlock out of that most appalling reverie. He moved back immediately, clearing his throat, touching the tie that was now perfectly hanging down his neck.

"Thanks," he muttered.

John smiled, leaning his head back against the edge of his chair. Sherlock was rapidly trying to control his breathing, searching for something, _anything_ in that brilliant mind of his, that would help him stop hyperventilating. He was never going to wear a tie for the rest of his life, he decided. Not if John was going to tie it for him instead.

* * *

><p>John's fingers were buzzing from where they had made contact with Sherlock's skin. <em>God, <em>what was _wrong _with him? If any kind of interaction with Sherlock would make him giddy and stupid, well, he had to get a hold on himself.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had stayed for the first class. Well, he had _tried _to, at least. It was Social Science, which John had a feeling Sherlock absolutely loathed. If he didn't care to know that the earth revolved around the sun, he doubted he cared which country had what kind of political system.

Of course, Sarah's stares and Edmund's stares, and the great deal of general _staring _didn't seem to make anything easier. But John really didn't see how caring about it was going to help. So he just sat in his seat in the last row (he hadn't particularly wanted to sit so far away, but Sherlock had doggedly insisted that if he was going to sit here at all, it was certainly not going to be anywhere _close _to 'that utter fool')

"Do you know, John," he whispered conspiratorially into his ear during class, "That Mr. Bradston is currently having problems with his wife?"

John turned to him, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock was looking back at him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, looking sickeningly pleased with himself.

"Yeah? Why?"

It was half a challenge and half indulgence; he knew Sherlock had a logical basis for his assumptions, and he also knew that Sherlock _loved _to show off. So he let him, half hoping he would say something silly and he could tease him good-naturedly.

"See the coat he's draped over the back of the chair? It's filthy. And his clothes too; he's utterly shabby. He's married, you see- look at the ring- which wife would let him walk out of the house like that? Obviously one that doesn't care greatly for him. That, coupled with fact that a few minutes ago he received a phone call- the ringtone is personalised, so someone special. Wife. He looked abhorrently hopeful when he saw who it was and he scurried out of class to take it, but he came back in ten seconds later looking dejected. Wife, who didn't have much to say to him besides something practical. His clothes are expensive, but old- I'd reckon three or fourth months, which is possibly when they had the fall out. And don't even get me started on—"

"Mr. Holmes," the teacher snapped. "Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"

_Please don't be a smart arse please don't be a smart arse PLEASE DON'T BE A SMART ARSE_, John prayed, but...

"I don't know. I assume it would be inappropriate of me to make a public display of your dismal matrimonial affairs," he countered readily.

The class went silent. Somebody whispered, "_Busted_."

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, but he just looked at him with an expression that clearly said, _What? It's not like I'm lying. He had it coming. He's an idiot._

Mr. Bradston's mouth opened and closed several times, reminding John of a fish. Then his face flushed with anger and he spat out, "Get out of my class! I should be taking you to the principal!"

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock replied vaguely, picking up his bag, "But you won't because you know I'll tell him, and you don't want him to know that you've been deprived of your wife's love."

The class burst into ill-suppressed laughter, but John just smacked his palm to his forehead. _Who else but Sherlock?_

"_OUT." _The teacher snapped again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes before whispering to John,

"See, John. _Exactly _why I detest lessons. See you after class."

John was trying to glare at him, but he couldn't resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Sherlock stalk away.

* * *

><p>The only reason Sherlock had stayed for class was because he would be able to sit next to John. He expected to get thrown out of class in any case, but this, at least, was a record for him; he had actually spent thirty five of the forty five minutes within the classroom.<p>

Now, of course, he had nothing to do for the next ten minutes, and he could _feel _the boredom eating away at him again, the dullness of the world seeming to almost suffocate him.

He really wanted to smoke, but he didn't want John to know- and he would, obviously. So he just went to the woods, knowing that John would come sooner or later.

So he leaned against the trunk of the tree, closed his eyes...

...and snapped them open. Who was coming? John? No...someone bigger than John, taller...

"What's up, Holmes?"

Sherlock groaned. _Victor Trevor_.

* * *

><p>John didn't even have to look for Sherlock, he knew exactly where he would be. So he wasn't surprised to find him there, but he <em>was <em>surprised to see another boy with him.

Sherlock turned to him sharply as soon as he saw John, his blue-grey eyes almost greedily taking in the sight, hardly giving him the chance to wonder who the boy was. "John," he said his name almost reverently. "Please rescue me from this boredom," he flopped dramatically down on the grass. "I'll even come with you for class. Even..even _English." _His voice was muffled against his hands, which were covering his face, and all he could see of it were the dark curls spilling over the tips of his fingers.

"Drama queen, isn't he?" John finally turned to the boy. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, but more strongly built, with fair hair and tanned skin, a friendly smile on his face as he stretched out his hand for a shake.

John shook it. "Sorry, I don't—"

"Victor Trevor. I'm in 11A, you haven't met me yet."

"Ah," John nodded understandingly, still trying to process the way he had said _drama queen_ almost affectionately, in the tone _he _normally used for Sherlock, the _yes-he-is-an-idiot-but-I-kind-of-like-it_ one.

"And you don't _have _to meet him," Sherlock scoffed, jumping up. "Trevor, this is John Watson, please don't feel obligated to speak to him. John, don't we have class or something equally dreadful to go for? Come along, now."

"Excuse him," John said apologetically, ignoring Sherlock's expression of betrayal even as he said those words. _How dare you ignore me John don't you see this person is terrible let's get out of here _it said. "He doesn't really—"

"Oh, he does, I assure you," but he said it without any hint of venom. "Saw this idiot moping about alone so I thought I'd give him company."

John found it difficult to form a reply so it just came out as, "You...give him..._company_?" Who in their right minds would plop down next to Sherlock when he was, as Victor had so eloquently put it, 'moping'? Did people actually _do _that? Were there more of them? And why did Sherlock dislike him so much? There were far too many questions in John's head and no answers.

"Why are we still having this conversation?" Sherlock waved his arms about dramatically. "We've introduced ourselves. Told each other our names. Now that the entire process is over, aren't we supposed to part ways? Do you two have _any _idea at all what social convention entails?" He turned to John. "John. We must leave. At once. I'm fairly sure we have English."

"Sherlock, stop it. Sorry," he apologised to Victor again, who was looking at the now petulant Sherlock with wry amusement on his face. "So, you know Sherlock?"

"Oh I'm sure _he _knows everything about me. He can probably tell what kind of ketchup I had this morning—"

"You didn't _have _ketchup this morning," Sherlock interjected sullenly. He had plopped down on the grass again, knees drawn up, arms thrown to the side, staring at the sky with an annoyed expression.

"Of course he would know that," Victor muttered, then turning to John, "Two years ago he helped me with a family problem. Dad was having a bit of a trouble, unfortunately I didn't ask him for help until Dad dropped- but he unravelled it all like a loose sweater."

"He did?" John wasn't very surprised, but he wanted to know more- any insight on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes was welcome.

"Yeah," Victor grinned. "When I first introduced him to Dad, he read him like an open book. Dad was so scared of him, it was hilarious. In any case, he helped me out, and the least I could do was—"

"Pretend to be my friend," Sherlock muttered.

"Mate, no one's pretending." But Victor didn't look offended. John couldn't help the flare of jealousy that suddenly sprung up; the way Victor was speaking to him, and the way Sherlock was insulting him—like—they _knew _each other, and evidently more than John knew Sherlock, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He knew he couldn't dislike Victor for such a petty reason...but he really couldn't help it.

"But I see now that he's got a new friend," Victor smiled at John. "Shocking, really, I mean, this is the first time I've _ever_—"

"Alright, time to go," Sherlock suddenly sprang to his feet and tugged violently on John's arm to pull him up. "Come along, John."

Victor seemed unaffected by this, he just rolled his eyes and got up too, dusting the grass off his trousers.

"Nice to meet you, though, John," Victor patted John's shoulder. Sherlock was silently simmering besides him, radiating wave after wave of impatience, and as it was John was finding it difficult to formulate suitable replies with him standing so close that he could actually feel his cool breath against his neck.

"Good to see Sherlock with someone. See you around, mate." He grinned at the both of them and walked off in the other direction.

"_That _was tedious," Sherlock muttered, and pulled John to drag him away.

"And when were you going to tell me about him?" John wanted to shout at Sherlock, but he knew that was entirely uncalled for, so he tried to keep his voice to a reasonable limit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What is there to tell? He's a fairly unremarkable boy who insists on thanking me in this distasteful manner. I'd be much more grateful if he just left me alone."

John raised his eyebrows at the acid in Sherlock's voice. "From what I know, mate, you only hate people that much if you actually like them."

"Where on _earth _did you pull out _that _rubbish from?" he scoffed. "The _tabloids_?"

"He seemed to know you well," John said dryly, ignoring his comment.

"Hardly. He doesn't know _anything _about me." Sherlock said it almost bitterly, and John felt himself thaw a little. "_Everyone_ seems to assume they know me. But honestly, John, I care very little for him, I assure you."

"Well, you should!" John snapped, causing Sherlock to look at him in alarm.

"What do you mean?" He asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _Why was he reacting like this? There was nothing to be so angry about. It's not like Sherlock wasn't allowed to have friends_.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing at all. I just—never mind."

Sherlock continued to frown at him, his bow-shaped mouth pouted. "Okay," he said. "But Trevor only _thinks _he knows something about me."

"Sherlock, even _I_ don't know anything about you."

That made Sherlock stop. He shifted until he was right in front of John, those pale, multicoloured eyes firmly on John's. He ran a hand nervously through his thick curls. "That's not true. I don't think it's true. Is that true?" He bit his lip.

"Of course it is," John replied evenly, trying to ignore that Sherlock was just inches away from him, and those eyes...god, _those eyes_.

"But—"

"I didn't even know you had a brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We met _yesterday_. And I'm supposed to waste your time by telling you that I have a _brother_?"

"What's his name?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, with ill-disguised contempt. "Please let's not talk about him. Why do you want to talk about him? Let's talk about _me_."

John smiled at the way Sherlock was saying it, like a whiny child. "What's your favourite colour?"

Sherlock gaped at him. "My favourite _colour_?" He made a disgusted face. "Why would you want to know that? What purpose would it serve?"

"Well—"

"Can you come over today?"

"What?" Now John gaped at him. "Where?"

"To my house, of course," Sherlock said impatiently. "You should come. You can see Mycroft, since you're so desperate to. I hope he won't be there. Then I can show you that experiment I've been conducting."

"Experiment?" John said weakly, too shocked to absorb so much information at once.

"Yes." Sherlock began to walk, obviously expecting John to follow him. "Mycroft will pick us up. I don't want him to meet you, but he's driving me up the wall in any case. But I'm warning you; you must not speak to him more than required."

"Why not?"

"Because he's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet," Sherlock said it so simply, matter of factly, like it was hardly anything. But John almost did a double take at the words.

"What? Why? Is he some kind of terrorist? A mass murderer?" It all seemed so probable. With Sherlock, his brother would only be someone equally dramatic. Maybe he carried out assassinations, John thought wildly- or perhaps he kidnapped little girls.

Sherlock made a face in John's direction. "I wish. Quite the opposite. Believe me, John, he practically _is _the British Government."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Do I look like I'm joking? When you see him you'll know. Well, correct that; when you see him you'll probably want to go running off screaming in the other direction. But don't worry; he won't try anything when _I'm _there." He put his hand on his chest superiorly, like John was some kind of damsel in distress and Sherlock was his knight; and the idea seemed ridiculous at first, then quite endearing...

* * *

><p>Sherlock attended exactly two and a half classes after that; Biology, where he covertly pocketed a vial of god-knows- what; 'I need it for an <em>experiment<em>, John, don't be tiresome," (John was constantly wondering what Sherlock _meant _when he said 'experiment' but he decided he would find out anyway.), English, which he only attended because John reminded him that he had promised.

The English teacher was _extremely _patient, John decided. Especially when Sherlock asked her, "But how can you just _assume _that the poet wants to kill himself? What are you teaching your students? Is all optimism lost on you?" and she had responded with, "Mr. Holmes, this is what I'm expected to teach you, please don't make me lose my job."

And last of all, Chemistry, which was the only class Sherlock found tolerable, but as usual, he corrected the teacher too many times and he was asked to leave.

So John was relieved when the last period was over and he could go to Sherlock's house. He was far too excited about it, he told himself, but he didn't care.

"There he is," Sherlock mumbled discreetly, pointing at the sleek black car parked in the driveway. "Remember what I told you. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Try to give him one-word answers. And on _no account_ must you give him your social security number. Although he could find that out himself, if he was so inclined. For your sake, I hope not."

"Sherlock, you make it sound like you're brother will kill me as soon as I meet him," John muttered, as they walked towards the car. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest. Was his brother a mad axeman who would chop off his head as soon he opened the door? John shuddered.

"He's not a _psychopath_," Sherlock drawled. "That word is usually associated with me."

Before John could ask him what he meant by that, they had reached the car, the door opened, and a man stepped out, dressed in a sharp suit.

The first thing that passed through John's mind was _doesn't look like Sherlock_. But when he looked at him for a few more seconds, he realised that he _did; _but the differences were subtle and you had to be observant. He had the same skin tone, the same piercing, pale eyes, although theirs was a more distinguished, plainer, grey; almost clinical. He was tall, although not at all as thin as Sherlock, with soft gingery hair, a pointed nose, and thin lips that were at this moment turned up in a polite smile, as he looked at John as if he were a particularly amusing pet dog.

"Mycroft, this is John." Sherlock put a hand on John's back and pushed him forward for this man to see. "John, this is Mycroft."

"Good afternoon, John," he said lightly, holding out a gloved hand for him to shake. The other hand was leaning against an umbrella.

"Oh, hello, yes, good afternoon," John bumbled, shaking his hand perhaps a bit more forcefully than required.

"I'm afraid Sherlock had been rather secretive about you, so I do hope you will forgive me if I ask you some questions on the way." He gave him that polite, but slightly condescending smile again. He reminded John of a lazy snake; coiled lightly, but quick to attack when provoked.

He gulped. "No, of course—"

"That's quite enough. Mycroft, you've come to pick me up, not to _converse_. Stop imposing yourself on John. John, get inside."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else to his brother. "Make yourself comfortable John," he said smoothly, and got into the driver's seat, while Sherlock all but pushed John into the car.

Sherlock curled up in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up and retreating into himself, which quite frankly, alarmed John, because he _did not _want to carry on a conversation with Mycroft _alone_.

No. No way.

"So, John. I understand you have a sister."

"Y-yes sir," John stammered, quite powerless to ask him _how the fuck he knew that_. He looked uncertainly at Sherlock, but he seemed quite unconcerned about the whole thing. _How _could he not be noticing how uncomfortable John was?

"You needn't be so frightened of me, John," Mycroft said, looking at him through the rear view mirror. "I have no doubt that Sherlock has been feeding you a great deal of information about me, but, contrary to his beliefs, I do not, in fact, wish you harm. So you may put yourself at ease." He said it calmly, with no hint of anger, yet John could shake off his discomfort.

"I have not been _lying _to John, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. "I was simply endeavouring to give him a sound background about you."

"Let me guess," Mycroft said dryly. "You told him that I was a dangerous man, practically controlled the world, et cetera, et certera."

"I said nothing of the sort," Sherlock sniffed, earning a reproachful glance from John.

"You _did," _he seethed. Sherlock looked appalled that he was not participating in this charade.

"Never mind, John. In time you will learn to put up with my brother's antics." He smoothly stopped the car. "We're here."

* * *

><p>John knew that Sherlock was posh, so he wasn't surprised to be driving into the affluent neighborhood and stopping in front of the three- story colonial, surrounded by expansive, well kept grounds and a gate of wrought iron.<p>

"Oh, thank god," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and opened the door, springing out. He obviously expected John to follow him, so John tumbled out himself, and mumbled a hasty thank you to Mycroft, only too eager to be off.

He finally caught up with Sherlock, who had walked through the gate and was going down the path of gravel leading up to the house.

"So...that was Mycroft."

"Yes. Dreadful, isn't he? Must have been such a _bore _talking to him. At least _I _can tell him to go away. You're too polite to do it." Sherlock said it distastefully, like it was a lacking on John's part to be unable to be rude to Mycroft.

"Yeah, well, you _did _tell me he was...what did you say...'practically the British government.' I don't want to end up in jail."

"Oh don't be _silly_, John," Sherlock dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. "I don't think he can arrest a British civilian who hasn't committed a crime." He turned to John, his features suddenly alight with excitement and curiosity. "You _haven't, _have you?"

"No, of course not," John said, although he was fairly sure Sherlock had wanted him to say the exact opposite.

"Oh. Pity," Sherlock pulled him in.

His house was the kind of house you were afraid to walk around in; with all these antiques and expensive portraits on the walls; stiff, dull-coloured sofas that were good to look at but didn't seem very comfortable, the walls were plastered with fancy wallpaper—

"Master Holmes," someone said, and John turned around to see a thin man dressed in one of those butler's uniforms you saw on the telly, standing next to a particularly fancy-looking lamp. "Would you like some lunch?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, and started walking away, and then he stopped suddenly, causing John to almost bash into him. Then he turned around, fixing John with his piercing eyes. "Although I suppose _you _would be hungry," he said, like an afterthought.

John shrugged. "Maybe."

"Obviously. Get him something to eat," he told the butler. "Okay. Come."

He started walking up the carpeted stairs, and John caught his breath for a few seconds. He still couldn't quite place Sherlock, this obviously wealthy boy with the mysterious, umbrella-carrying brother, where were his parents?- and the _butler_. Did people actually _have _butlers?

"His name is Rogers," Sherlock said, like he was reading his mind.

"What?"

"You're thinking about the butler, aren't you? And Mycroft. But don't think about _him_. And my parents, of course. They're usually not home. You don't want to meet _them _either."

"Why not?"

They had reached the third floor, which was darker and less furnished than the other two. There was a door to the side, which Sherlock put his hand on. "A story to tell for another time, John."

Then he opened the door.

The first thing John though was _filthy_. And it was. It was the messiest room he had ever seen. Well, even John's room was untidy, but this was...but when he took a closer look, he realised it wasn't _garbage._

There was a bed pushed into the corner of the room, unmade, like sleeping didn't matter much. The only fairly normal furniture in the room was the closet, and the desk.

"I suppose it's a bit untidy," Sherlock said nervously. "But...there's probably some space on the bed. Although you'll have to avoid the fungi—"

"_Fungi_?"

"Yes. It's poisonous, so be careful."

John gaped at him. "_Poisonous?_ You keep _poisonous fungi _in your _bedroom_?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that? I'm not going to _eat _it." Sherlock said impatiently. "And don't tell me you're going to stand there for the rest of the day. Come _in._"

So John walked in after Sherlock, now inspecting the room more carefully. One wall of the room was almost completely covered with a bookshelf, crammed head to foot with dusty volumes. The room was carpeted, but it was grimy and covered with funny stains that John didn't care to dwell on. There was a framed picture of...was that the periodic table? And his desk was covered with scattered papers and more books, and _jesus_, petri dishes! But the most striking thing was the black and silver microscope occupying a place of honor on the desk. The windows were big, but the curtains were drawn.

"You have a microscope," John finally said, lamely.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. He was leaning against the wall, next to the door, watching John wearily. "I find it immensely useful."

"Your parents bought you a microscope? And they let you keep it in your bedroom?"

"My parents don't care what I keep in my bedroom. And Mycroft got it for me. When I was seven. One of the very few useful things he has done in his life."

John gaped at him again. "When you were _seven_?" Bloody hell. He was friends with some sort of scientific prodigy.

Sherlock looked at him, a strange kind of fear in his eyes. "Yes, but it's not like..well, I wasn't very _good _at it, I mean, I was a fairly normal child, I can assure you—"

John waved it off. "No, Sherlock—" he stepped closer. Sherlock looked at him apprehensively. "I don't care about that. Why would I? I think you're a _genius_."

Sherlock smiled almost shyly. It was John's favourite smile. "You do?"

"Of course. How many times do I tell you?" He smiled back.

Sherlock was about to say something in reply when the loud _bang _of a door could be heard, like it as just closed shut.

Sherlock turned around sharply. "Don't tell me..." he muttered.

"Wh-"

"_Sherlock! _Are you home?" A shrill, female voice rang out, that could be heard even from below two storeys.

"Oh, for _god's sake_," Sherlock hissed, his expression turning hard. "They're _never _home so early..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I could have gone on, but this chapter is far too long already. In any case, it was an absolute pleasure to write, and I'm hoping it was a pleasure to read as well! Just so you know, I could have added elements of 221B into Sherlock's room, but I chose not to, because, well...that's JOHN and SHERLOCK's, and this is Sherlock without the influence of John. I hope you liked the added twist of Victor Trevor, from **_**Gloria Scott**_**. Well, as ever, thank you for reading, and if you liked it, please do review! Your feedback is my life source when it comes to writing, so don't hold back!**

**Have a lovely week. :)**

**PS. The next update will take a while, but I'll make it worth it!**


	6. Chapter 6

:6:

_**A/N: **_**Hello! Sorry for the delay. It's been a long time. But to be fair, I did warn you! Haha. Anyway, I had my finals which were as usual, **_**dull**_**. I still have four exams left but I have a nice long break so I thought I'd just get down to it and write you a chapter. **

**Before that, I'd like to say a word or two about Sherlock's parents. In this fic, they're not going to be very nice, so if that offends you, I'm really sorry about that but that's just how I roll. Don't like, don't read.**

**That being said, I've always found some inconsistencies with Sherlock's past and the parents we're shown in the show. There's that big family house in his mind palace and that cottage in HLV...strange. O_o. So, I've always thought that there must have been **_**something**_** in Sherlock's that made him who he was...do you get me? So I've added my own take to that. **

**Anyway, what a long author note! Thank you all for your reviews, follows and favourites. They mean so much to me and I thank you all for reading, and I'm verrrrry happy that y'all are enjoying it! We've reached over 1000 views and I thank all of you for your support. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Anything that sounds familiar (lines/ scenes from **_**A Study in Pink)**_** are the property of Mark Gattiss, Moffat, and the ever blessed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

**I'll stop now. Hope this makes up for the wait!**

* * *

><p><em>No no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO.<em>

Sherlock ran both hands through his curls. This was unacceptable. _This was unacceptable_. What should he do? What _could _he do? That's it. This was the end of their acquaintance. His mother was here. His mother was here and _John _was here, and he felt like he was in a nightmare, because this was the _one _situation he had wanted to avoid. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, pressing his finger tips to his temples. That's it. Go to the Mind Palace. What was the protocol for these situations?

_Damage Control_.

Flashing red lights and an annoying siren. _Hardly useful, I already _know _that the crisis level has reached DEFCON-1._ _What do I DO about it? _How could he rectify the situation? Introduce John? No. Hide John in the closet? Not a bad idea.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and he snapped his eyes open. John was squeezing his shoulder, his eyes concerned. John's hands were warm.

"Sherlock," he said, calmly. His voice (and more importantly, his touch) instantly brought the rapid wheels running in Sherlock's head to an abrupt end. "Who is it?"

Sherlock felt his lip curl in spite of himself. "Someone who we should be avoiding at all costs," He seethed, breaking away from John's grasp to look out the door.

"Are you going to tell me who it is?" John asked.

Sherlock considered the possibility. He might be able to pretend that she was his housekeeper for a few minutes, unless she decided to come up. But then again, John wasn't an idiot...and he didn't want to lie to him.

"Sherlock," John insisted, his mouth a hard, straight line, and a little frown marring his brow. Sherlock sighed. What was the _point_? Potential friends should know everything about each other. Wait...had he said friend?

"Sherlock?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow. The tone of John's voice was not one to broach argument. Or stubbornness.

"She's my..." Sherlock licked his lips. "Mother."

"_Mother_?" John stared at him.

"In a manner of speaking," he shrugged.

"But—"

"Sherlock! Come downstairs! I have to speak to you about something!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable. John didn't deserve to be in the presence of his mother, but he was hoping that John's wonderful nature would prevail in this case. That he wouldn't decide that Sherlock was a freak after all and leave him.

"Come along, John," he said, dejectedly. "Come along and meet my _mother_."

Sherlock was leading the way, so when he went downstairs, his mother was standing next to the sofas, arms crossed over her chest as her foot tapped impatiently. She was about to open her mouth to say something to him, when her eyes suddenly fell upon John and her mouth snapped shut. She stared for a few seconds, eyes rapidly shifting from Sherlock to John to Sherlock.

He watched her impassively, wondering what was going through her head as she registered that he was not, in fact, alone. Finally, her basic politeness kicked in and she smiled widely. It was a fake smile, of course, Sherlock knew it quite well; but a smile, nevertheless. And he was glad; John deserved to have people smile at him.

"Hello," she said. "Sherlock, who is this?"

"Afternoon, Mrs. Holmes," John said politely, stepping forward. Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. Now John was being _nice_. He was always far too _nice_. He had no idea how he was standing this obvious character defect for so long.

His mother seemed to be surprised that anyone Sherlock brought home would be actually aware of basic etiquette, and she shook his hand. "Afternoon, dear. Who exactly—"

"I'm John, John Watson. A friend of Sherlock's from school." John smiled again. One of those winning smiles that made the slightest crinkle in the corner of his blue eyes—

"_Friend_?" His mother's eyebrows shot up in surprise as her eyes widened. Then she laughed; a horrible, trilling sound that was as fake as her smile. "Are you sure your family hasn't committed a murder or something of that sort? Sherlock does love his little mysteries, don't you dear?" Then she looked at Sherlock; her grey eyes searching his face. Sherlock gave nothing away, he looked back at her; although his mind was rapidly cataloging her reactions, his heart thrumming against his chest like a frantic bird. He wanted this entire exchange to be over as soon as possible, it was difficult enough to hold on to John, but if his mother said more than required, John might be disgusted and run away.

"Murder?" John frowned. "Erm...not that I know of. What exactly do you mean?"

"Oh nothing, nothing," she waved him off dismissively. "it's just that this is the first time Sherlock has ever brought a friend home. He doesn't have friends, my son." She smiled again, as if the fact that Sherlock was friendless was something of great amusement.

"So I'm told," John said wryly. "Fortunately he has me." Sherlock's heart did an odd leap at that comment.

"Well, that's lovely, I suppose," she said, with another slight giggle. "Although I hope you won't be disappointed if he loses interest in you due to your inability to stomach his rather morbid fascinations. Always a delight, Sherlock." She shot him a glance, as if daring him to say anything different. Sherlock wished that the floor could open up and swallow him whole, the damning words tumbling out of her mouth were pulling him further and further away from John.

"I'm sure he won't, Mrs. Holmes," John said brightly, although his eyes wore a steely glint. "Sherlock's been a lot of fun, actually."

"Lovely," she purred. "I came to speak to Sherlock, but since he's busy...we'll talk later."

"Oh no, please, go ahead, I'll just step away—"

"No, it's alright. I had better get off to work. I'll be late, Sherlock." With that, she walked out of the living room and out the door.

* * *

><p>It was taking all of John's effort not to be rude to Sherlock's mother. What on earth did that woman think of herself? Talking about her own <em>son <em>like that! He breathed heavily as she finally left.

Suddenly, many things fell into place. Suddenly Sherlock didn't seem like such an oddity. With parents like that, who _wouldn't _dislike all of humanity?

He turned around to Sherlock, and met his blue-grey gaze. He said nothing, simply looked at John, an unfathomable expression on his face. _Nervousness? Anger? What? _He hated to see Sherlock like that. Sherlock was _always _so sure of himself, so confident and graceful in his movements. Now he looked fearful.

"Your mother is an absolute delight," John finally muttered.

Sherlock cracked a smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked paler that he had before, and John noticed the very slight tremble in his fingers.

"Sherlock," he said, softly this time, moving closer to him, until he was just a few inches away. "I respect your mother and all that. But you do know that I don't believe anything she said?"  
>Sherlock frowned at him, as if John was speaking in some foreign language. "You don't?" he asked, quietly.<p>

"Of course not," John snorted.

"That's...good." he plucked some imaginary lint on his trousers.

"Yes, it is. Very good. Now come on, let's get back to your room."

* * *

><p>When Sherlock led him back to his bedroom, John noticed some things he hadn't noticed before; one was the very large display board on one of the walls, pinned with numerous pictures, newspaper cut outs, and maps. There were coloured tacks on them, either pinpointing locations or holding them into place. Strings connected one location to another. It made absolutely no sense to John.<p>

Walking through the mess of god-knows-what on the floor, he stood in front of it. "Okay. What is this?" he asked.

"It would take ages for me to explain." Sherlock stood next to him.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes.

"Where on earth did you get _that _idea?" Sherlock said vaguely.

"Arse. Come on, tell me. I want to know."

Sherlock looked at him, then, biting his lip nervously. "Alright," he finally said. "It's just...just a display board."

"Displaying what, exactly?"

Then Sherlock shot him a devilish grin. "Murders."

"Murders?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yes. The police force is full of fools. I've solved at least three of them, and I haven't even left my room. I've tried to speak to them, but they always throw me out."

"You've _solved _them?" John gaped at him.

"Yes. Do keep up, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "I get bored. I get _so _bored. And the newspaper, although alarming in its ability to publish utter nonsense, _does _talk about the occasional murder. Serial, if I'm lucky."

"Serial murders," John laughed nervously. "So you want to be a police officer, huh?'

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be a consulting detective," he said grandly.

John smiled at that. "A consulting what?"

"Detective. Why do you insist on repetitions? I detest repetitions."

"What's a consulting detective?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always- they will consult me. I'll be their highest court of appeal."

"Ambitious."

"Hardly," Sherlock snorted. "They'll be running after me all day."

"I'm sure they will," John said indulgently. Sherlock was becoming more and more mysterious with everything he said. It was oddly appropriate, what he wanted to be. Then he noticed a strange yellowish-white thing on top of the glass cupboard.

"Sherlock. Is that a _skull_?"

"Oh," Sherlock's mouth made a perfect _o _as his eyes fell upon the self same skull. "Yeah, friend of mine. Well, I say friend." Sherlock looked completely nonplussed about the absurdity of keeping that morbidly grinning abomination in his own bedroom.  
>"Okay," was all John managed to say.<p>

The other thing he noticed was a violin-shaped case propped up against a glass cupboard.

"Sherlock, is that a violin?" John asked, stepping forward.

"Oh. Yes. I'm very good at it." John was learning to recognize the subtle arrogance in Sherlock's voice. Far from finding it annoying, he found it alarmingly adorable.

"Really? Could you play for me?" John sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at him expectantly.

Sherlock look appalled. "You want to hear me play?" He nervously fingered his tie.

"Yeah. Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, bending down gracefully and picking up the case from the corner. "It's just..it's the first time somebody has asked me to play."

Then he sat next to him on the bed, close enough for their legs to be touching. John didn't want to move. Sherlock placed the violin on his lap, deftly unclasping it.

"Why not?" John seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from the long, slender fingers removing the violin reverently and running themselves along the polished wood.

"Quite possibly because I abhor playing for people," he replied, whilst tuning the instrument, those pale fingers delicately turning the knobs. John noticed the thin scars and puncture holes on those pale forearms, and he wanted to say something, to _ask_. But he didn't want to scare Sherlock off. He closed off so easily. _In time,_ he thought.

"I want to hear you play." He said instead.

"So you said." Sherlock stood up, placing the violin under his chin, and placing the bow lightly on the strings. "What do you want me to play?" he licked his lips. John involuntarily licked his own.

"Something nice," he said, quite unable to say anything more specific, because the mere sight of Sherlock looking all elegant and Shakespearean with the violin under his chin was distracting.

"I'm playing for _you,_ John. Of course I'll play something nice. I wanted to play your favourite. Since you're being thoroughly un co-operative I will have to exercise my own supreme powers of deduction and play what I hope you will like. I _detest _conjecture, John, but I'll make an exception for you." John had lost the trail of conversation after, _I'm playing for you, John._

"I think the occasion calls for Bach. Have you heard Bach?"

"Not much," John said honestly.

"Good. I'll play that for you then. This is oddly..romantic. Sentimental. Don't play many of those."

_Romantic? Sentimental? Was Sherlock playing something _romantic _for him? _

But then the bow began to move across the strings, and John stopped thinking. A haunting, beautiful melody filled the room. John watched, enraptured, as Sherlock swayed in tune to his own music, those elegant, pale fingers plucking the strings as the other hand directed the bow back and forth across the strings, creating the most wonderful music he had ever heard. Sherlock closed his eyes, his long lashes fanning across his cheeks, and his lips parted slightly, as he concentrated. He looked so perfect, like he belonged right here, in that messy room with the late afternoon sunlight piercing through the blue curtains, so he stood in a pool of yellowish light that threw his sharp features (especially his cheekbones) into further prominence, his wrists and fingers and hands moving dexterously across the instrument, playing, plucking, _creating_.

Finally, the music stopped, and Sherlock removed the violin, and stood in front of John, watching him nervously. It took John a few seconds to register the absence of the music, a few more to realise that his mouth was hanging open, and a few more to be able to gather himself and formulate a hasty reply for the nervous Sherlock in front of him.

"That was _amazing," _he said fervently.

Sherlock immediately perked up. "You liked it?" he sat down again on the bed next to him, putting the violin back.

"Of course I did. I never knew you played so well."

Sherlock smiled his shy smile again. "I don't play when I know someone's listening."

"You played for me."

"Yes, John. Because you asked me to and I can't say no to you," he said, annoyed. "Why do you insist on being slow?"

Again, John only registered _I can't say no to you_.

Ugh. Why was he acting like such a...a...poof? _Get a grip on yourself, Watson. You are so not gay_.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Then someone's phone beeped. Sherlock's features suddenly became alight with excitement. He dived across the bed, almost lying across John in his haste to grip his phone.

"Er. Sherlock. Are you—"

"It's Billy!" he said rapturously, still lying across the sheets on his stomach. He pressed some buttons on his phone, read the message, and stood up just as suddenly. And gracefully. _Gah_.

"Billy?" Okay. John was lost now. "Who the hell is Billy?"

"_Billy_, John. He's...I don't know. Billy Wiggums. Drug addict, as far as I know," he shoved the phone into his pocket. "Come on. Up you get."

"A _drug addict_?" John got up automatically, responding to the childish glee in Sherlock's voice, although he was still completely at sea as to what was going on. "Where are we going?' A _drug addict_?

"There's been a _murder_, John! It's the fourth one this week!" He was already past the door. John ran after him, down the stairs, torn between being amused at the clear exhalation on Sherlock's face and utter confusion as to why a murder was making him so darn happy.

"Erm..Sherlock...could you please explain?" Sherlock stood reluctantly in the living room, looking at John, appalled at his inability to grasp the gravity of the situation.

"A murder, John! Four murders! And a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

"Christmas," John said weakly. "Still not getting it, Sherlock."

"Oh, John, don't you _see?_" He suddenly gripped his shoulders, his eyes wide in his buoyancy. "We're going to solve this one!"

"Oh," John pursed his lips, rounding his eyes. "We're going to solve a murder. We're sixteen and we're going to solve a murder. A serial murder." _Sherlock's touch was warm. And nice._

"Yes, John. Although your ability to state the obvious is an enviable one, it's of no use right now. Come on! We're wasting time! The game is on, John!" Sherlock literally jumped out the door.

John just thought, _Oh, what the hell_. He was about to leave when the butler ran to him with a plate with two sandwiches on it.

"Sir, your—"

"Yeah, thanks," John said quickly, grabbing one and running out.

Sherlock was impatiently waiting for him at the gate, and John sprinted across the path to him.

"Aren't you going to change?" John asked, stuffing the sandwich in his mouth hungrily. Both of them were still wearing their uniforms. "You should eat something. Eat something first."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be boring. Come on. We have a crime scene to deduce!"

He started walking quickly down the path, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Okay. Where are we going?" John asked, deciding that he was going to have to devise a method of getting Sherlock to eat.

"Lauriston gardens. A woman's been murdered and she scribbled some sort of note before she died."

"Billy told you?"

"Yes."

"Will you be allowed there?"

"Obviously not, John. But that's hardly an obstacle."

"Of course it isn't."

When they reached the main road, all Sherlock had to do was raise his arm and a cab stopped right in front of them. John had no idea why he found that so...attractive? _No. Not gay. NOT gay._

Sherlock opened the door and shoved John into the cab, then settled in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up to his chin, thrumming with excitement.

John realised that he would have to tell the cabbie where to go.

"Lauriston gardens," he informed him.

Then the cab started to move, and John could literally _feel _the wheels turning in Sherlock's head.

"So I assume you've solved the murder already?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, his blue-grey eyes confused. "What?"

"You know. You said you solved those murders without getting out of your room. Why can't you do it now?"

"Circumstances were _different_, John. It's a capital mistake to make premature evaluations."

"So..."

"So we wait." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, and that was clearly the end of the conversation.

* * *

><p>The building was milling with police personnel. Yellow tape barricaded the crime scene, with several police cars emblazed with <em>Scotland Yard <em>were parked in the driveway. Sherlock dragged him to the side of a building on the other side.

"Sherlock. How the _hell _are you going to get to the body?"

"I know this place. There's a backdoor on the other side. I'll only need five minutes. Come _on_ John. Don't you like this?"

John rolled his eyes. But, truth be told, of course he was liking it. It probably wasn't very decent of him, but still...

"Oh, who cares about decent," Sherlock muttered, dragging them out of that dark alley and pulling them along the road.

"How the—"

"You're biting your lip, and your hands are shoved in your pockets. Your nervous, and your face has 'guilty' written all over it. You're not happy that the woman is _dead_, John. You're happy because we are going to solve the case. There. See? It's very decent."

John nodded blindly, trying to ignore Sherlock's grip on his bicep and the fact that he had noticed that he was biting his lips. He shrugged off his hand and asked, "Where are we going?"

"To the backdoor of the building, John. Keep up." Sherlock put his hands in his pocket and when they reached a turn in the road, he kept walking; the picture of nonchalance. It was darker on that side, and only one or two officers were around. They had reached the other side of the building.

"Sherlock, are we just going to enter a crime scene? You do realise it's illegal?"

"We're going to enter a crime scene and we will not be arrested. Things are always best hid in plain sight, John. Where would you hide a tree? In the forest." John had no idea what Sherlock was babbling about, but he had just moved smoothly towards the building, lifted the tape, and walked right in.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

But before he could finish the sentence, they were interrupted by a burly officer who stepped up to them assertively. "And who are you, son?"

"William, officer. William, and this is my friend Jonathan. Just comin' home from school. Not a problem, I hope? Mum's awfully worried. What with the murder an' all. Was too afraid to come from the front, all those scary—"

"Alright, alright," the officer held up his hand. "Move along. Hurry home."

"Yessir," Sherlock said, and walked in. John followed him weakly, too shocked by the sudden change in Sherlock's accent to change anything.

"How did you—"

"Billy taught me. Now come on."

The back door was open, and the small, harshly lit lobby was mostly empty. A narrow stair case ran up the side. Sherlock ran up with surprising energy as always, John following him closely. When they reached the landing, Sherlock began walking down the right corridor.

"Sherlock, where—"

"Shh," Sherlock held a slender finger to his lips. "Look."

The corridor was empty except for two policemen, who were talking to someone with their backs turned. The person was far too engrossed in what the two were saying. It took five seconds for Sherlock to pull him into a room on the side.

"We have about five minutes before they come back in," he whispered, and went to his knees next to the body on the floor. She was a woman, probably mid thirties, dressed in pink, lying on her front.

John almost gagged, but then he was suddenly hit with the realisation _that they were in a fucking crime scene and they had no way to get out of there what was this lunatic thinking_?

"Sherlock-" he started, but he also realised that Sherlock was too far gone to listen to a word. He had poking and prodding the body quickly and firmly, his eyes inspecting every inch of the body with a bloody magnifying glass- _where the hell had that come from_?

"John, look at this," he said, calling him. John walked over, trying not to step on anything he wasn't supposed to. Sherlock pointed at the word _Rache _scraped into the wood right next to the woman's hand.

"Rache? Rachel?" John asked.

"Obviously." Then he grinned. "This is fantastic!"

"Sherlock..."

"What? Come here. What do _you _think of it?"

"Try and remember that's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

As if on record, five minutes later, two officers walked in, dressed in body suits. One of them uttered a cry of outrage on seeing the two teenagers in the room.

"Who the hell are these kids? Get out!"

Sherlock stood up immediately, looking at the both of them with polite interest. "Good evening. Sorry, we were just about to leave."

"Damn well you were!" the other one said. Tall, with cropped brown hair, streaked liberally with grey, a long-ish face. He didn't sound particularly angry when he said that, just exasperated.

"Sorry, we live here, my friend just wanted to—" John stared babbling, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. The two officers went inside the room, resuming their investigation. John was only too glad to get out of the room, but just at the door, Sherlock turned around, leaned against the door, and said, "Oh, by the way, the woman is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes, probably media, judging from the alarming shade of pink. She's come from Cardiff, intending to stay in London from one night, judging from the size of her suitcase. Suitcase, yes, of course, she has a string of lovers, and none of them knew she was married. Oh yes, she's been having an affair. Numerous ones."

Both of them stared at him. John wanted to grab him and run away, because it was a _really _bad idea to show off to Scotland Yard, especially the showing off that was so particularly Sherlock. Although even he was shocked at how Sherlock could deduce that much in hardly five minutes.

Sherlock looked extremely pleased with himself. "Thought I'd speed you on your way."

The one who had yelled at Sherlock first just fumed. "Get out of here, you little upstart."

Sherlock shrugged and turned around.

"No, wait," that was the other officer. Sherlock turned around, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"Lestrade, you can't be serious—"

"How do you know she's from Cardiff? Having an affair? The suitcase? How do you know that?"

"Elementary. Her coat is wet from rain, but there hasn't been rain for a while in London. The underside of her collar is wet too, so she's turned it up against the wind. Strong wind- she has an umbrella with her which is dry, so too windy to use it. Far, judging from the size of her suitcase, but not very far because her coat hasn't dried yet. She hasn't travelled for more than a few hours. So where in that radius has it rained with strong wind? Easy." He picked his phone out of his pocket and showed it around. "Cardiff."

"The affair?"

"Look at her jewelry. The rest of it is clean, but not her ring. The inside is cleaner than the outside, so it's been regularly removed. Look at that alarming nail polish- she obviously doesn't work with her hands, so why remove the ring? Affair. String of lovers likely."

"The suitcase?"

"The mud tracks on her _heels_, inspector. Honestly, what is it _like _in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Sherlock!" John seethed, but the inspector was too shocked to notice. He looked at John as if to ask, _is this kid for real_? John simply shrugged.

"Yes, that was all very clever, but we would've gotten that much easily, kid—" but the brown-haired inspector waved him off.

"That was smart," he said. "What else can you tell us?"

Sherlock was trying very hard to act uninterested, but John could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off of him in waves. "That message," he pointed to the _Rache _scratched on the wood. "Does she know anyone named Rachel?"

"_Rachel," _the other officer laughed harshly. "The killer isn't that stupid, kid. Rache is the German word for revenge, so she was obviously—"

"Writing an angry note in German?" Sherlock prompted. "Of course. She's spend the last few seconds of her life scribbling _revenge _into the floor. If I were you, I'd find out who Rachel was."

The inspector looked impressed. He held out his hand for Sherlock. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. We could use someone like you in the force. Maybe once you're older you could join. But as for now, you should-"

Sherlock snorted. "Oh _please_. Scotland Yard? How tedious. Now tell me, where is the suitcase?"

Lestrade's hand fell. "Suitcase?"

"Yes, suitcase!" Sherlock said impatiently, pacing the room. "She obviously had a suitcase, so where is it? Did she eat it?"

Both the inspectors frowned at each other. "There was no suitcase."

"Maybe she left it in the hotel?" John suggested hopefully.

"No no," Sherlock waved him off dismissively. "Look at her hair, a woman this colour co ordinated—" Then Sherlock made a great 'oh!' of amazement and gripped John by his shoulders. "That's it, John! _Pink!"_

"Pink?" John repeated.

"Pink?" the inspectors echoed.

"Yes, pink!" then he looked around and noticed the bewilderment on everyone's faces. "Oh look at you lot," he drawled. "You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so _relaxing_."

"Sherlock," John said again warningly, and he pouted at him. Then he said to Lestrade, "Inspector, don't you _see! _Her case! It's pink!"

"Pink? Okay, so it's pink. How does that help?"

"She must have left it in the car when the killer drove her here...a bag that particular shade...would attract a great deal of attention, don't you think? The first thing the killer would do would be to get rid of it at the first opportunity."

"So where could we find it?"

"It can't be far," Sherlock said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "Has to be within a 2 or 3 mile radius...anywhere you could dispose of it easily. Come on, John! John, don't stare, it's such a waste of time, come _on_!"

And before either DI Lestrade, or the other officer, or even John, could even say a word, Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor.

"Wait!" the inspector called after him. "You're very clever and everything, but this is dangerous! Leave this matter to the police, kids!"

"I'm clever and you can't tell me what to do!" Sherlock called gaily after them, and soon they were out of the crime scene, running down the road, the sky now almost dark.

Sherlock and John stopped once they were outside, leaning against the wall of the opposite building, John panting and half his body weight leaning against the door, and Sherlock panting but positively bouncing with excitement.

"John! Why are you _waiting_?" Sherlock asked him, appalled. "Come _on!"_

"Give me a minute, Sherlock. Let me...catch my...breath."

"Catching your breath? _Boring_. We have a murder to solve."

"Sherlock, this is is a serial killer we're talking about—"

"I know," Sherlock said gleefully. "Isn't it _wonderful_?"

* * *

><p>John could think of a dozen different ways to spend a Wednesday night, one of which was finishing his homework. What he had not expected, in his whole life, was that he would be spending the self-same Wednesday night rummaging through a garbage dump with Sherlock. Not that he was particularly scared of this murderer, in fact he couldn't deny the adrenaline rushing through his veins...but he did <em>not <em>expect being friends with Sherlock to entail _this_. Not that he was complaining.

"Sherlock, this is the fourth one we've tried—"

"John, you're being tiresome." Sherlock's muffled voice came from the depths of the dump.

"Get out of there, you—"

"Aha!" Sherlock cried victoriously, and held up a medium-sized, bright pink case in his hands.

John's eyes widened.

"Is that—"

"The victim's suitcase, yes," Sherlock jumped out of the pile of garbage bags, holding the bag aloft and them dropping it on the floor. "I _told _you. Told those idiots. That's the problem, John. No one believes me."

John couldn't help himself from grinning. "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock shot him a manic grin. "Now? Why, we catch the killer, of course."

* * *

><p>There were many things that Mycroft detested. He detested people in general. He was not too fond of animals. He considered any kind of denim apparel to be frightfully degrading. And he <em>hated <em>conversations.

But what he detested most of all were conversations with his _parents_.

Mycroft did not hate his parents, of course- and he was sure Sherlock did not either. He was above such petty behaviour. But even he knew that his parents were less than stellar, and they did not know how to handle Sherlock. And in the end, they would use him as a means through which they could question Sherlock's activities and air their doubts as to whether his little brother would amount to anything at all.

"Mycroft, what do you make of this...this _boy _that Sherlock brought home today?" his mother asked, putting down the novel she was reading to look at Mycroft as he sat down on the armchair next to the fire.

"Which boy?" his father asked sharply. "He brought home a boy? Joyce, you did not tell me."

"Didn't I? You were not at home, dear. I have absolutely no idea who he was. He was from school, I think."

How _tedious_. "Did Sherlock happen to mention a name?" Although Mycroft knew exactly who she was talking about. He had dropped both of them off himself.

"Yes, I suppose he did. Something with J, I think."

"John Watson. He's a friend from school, I gather."

"Sherlock does not have friends," his father said stiffly.

"Although I agree with you, father, recent circumstances fail to validate that statement."

"What are you saying? Are you saying our son has finally got himself a friend? It must be for some experiment, I suppose."

"No, actually," Mycroft said, trying to hold on to his temper. He didn't lose it easily, but this conversation was trying his patience. "It doesn't have such a...phlegmatic origin."

"But, Mycroft, be reasonable—"

"I am being very reasonable. In any case, mother, it is a capital mistake to make premature evaluations, don't you think? Perhaps we should simply hold our tongues on the matter."

"Should we ask him about it? We should ask him. He's never been a very good liar," his father looked pleased with himself after coming to this conclusion.

"Hardly. Sherlock could lie through his teeth if he wanted. But, to answer your question, father, leave him alone. He's probably sleeping." Mycroft knew very well that Sherlock was not at home. All he could hope for was that John would keep an eye on him and prevent him jumping headfirst into danger, which was his usual instinct. John was easy to read, and it was a simple enough deduction that he was enamoured with his brother. Hopefully that would mean he would keep him safe. Far be it for Mycroft to stop his brother from 'solving a case'. Besides, Anthea would keep him informed. Two hours ago they had been to Laurister Gardens.

His mother sniffed haughtily. "I do not approve of this relationship. We don't even know who this boy is."

"This is the first friendship that Sherlock has cultivated, mother. I think it would be in his best interests for us to leave it at that."

"But, dear—"

"Do you think that I would allow John Watson to remain in my brother's life if I was convinced that he was a less that benevolent influence? You think too lowly of me, mother."

"But Mycroft—" his father started.

"I will keep the both of them under observation. The moment I am convinced that John is _not _exerting a positive effect on my brother, he will be removed immediately. Now will you please give the matter a rest?"

* * *

><p>It had been a long time since Sherlock was this tired.<p>

He trudged into his house at half past midnight, (the back door was remarkably easy to pick, they should get better security) still in his grimy uniform, and tumbled into his bed.

_No needles tonight, _he thought. _No nicotine_. His success was providing an altogether better high. This was the most fantastic case he had got in _months_. And he had solved it in a _day_.

But, there was something else as well that was giving his mind that particular exhalation, and it was of a rather unconventional type.

_John_.

Sherlock couldn't believe that he had been with the same person the whole day and not once had he gotten bored, or irritated, or annoyed. Not once had he thought of slinking away so that he could solve it himself.

John was the most wonderful person he had ever met. Sherlock could come to no other conclusion. John had _enjoyed _being with him. He hadn't thought him weird, or called him a psycho, and then there was that _face _he would make when Sherlock had something particularly clever. Like he was _awed_, not irritated. How could such a person exist? Surely someone who wouldn't tire of Sherlock so easily was a mythical creature.

He remembered how that cab driver had almost made him take those pills. He would have too, he thought. It was entirely possible. And then John came hurtling out of nowhere, tackling him to the ground, shouting at Sherlock, saying something along the lines of, "You complete wanker!" he had had been pretty good with the ropes too. And then he had been frightfully dull and had called the police in advance.

"I _knew _you were going to find him," John had said. "I was worried about what you would _do _once you did that."

John had guts. John was brave. Well, obviously. Someone who willingly spent so much time with Sherlock of all people would have to possess a certain degree of bravery.

Sherlock suddenly felt a twinge of regret when he had told John yesterday that he didn't have friends. This was the highest idiocy on his part. John Watson had offered to be his _friend_. Since when had _anyone _done that? Since when had Sherlock actually _wanted _to be friends with someone?

It was something that had never happened before. What was so special about John, really? Sherlock tried to bring out that little box in his Mind Palace that had the list. It was a calming room (because John had a strange way of calming) ..full of sunshine and wooden floors. It reminded him of John. But when he recalled the points on the list they seemed so..._inadequate_. Surely there were not just four reasons why Sherlock should be friends with John.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent John a text.

_John._

_What I said that day. About not having friends. It's not true._

_I only have one._

_Good night._

_(it's you.)_

_SH_

**A/N: Well, I do hope you enjoyed that! I had a lot of fun with this chapter, it was so much fun to write. I'm glad to get the things going along...I hope it's not going too fast? Tell me if you think so.**

**On a brighter (or not) note, please review! Your feedback makes my day and it really helps me along. Tell me what you thought of the story, it would mean the world to me! :)**

**I'll try to update soon...but I can't make any promises. It shouldn't be more than two weeks. Don't be angry! I love you, lovely readers! You are my life source. **

**Have a fantastic week, and please review! **

**Cheers. X**

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	7. Chapter 7

:7:

**A/N: I'm back! With a spanking new chapter. Things are going to pick up some pace, so there will be a time jump. Gotta get the story moving along.**

**This story does have a plot, but you will have to wait for a few chapters for it to start picking up. For now, I'm just focusing on relationship development, but I promise that there will be a point to the fic after all.**

**Don't hate me by the end of this chapter. ;-)**

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**Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. Familiar lines, etc, are, of course, property of the show. No money, just entertainment.**

* * *

><p>Days passed. Weeks passed. It had been almost a month since John had come to this school, a month since..well...a month since Sherlock.<p>

Sherlock was great, no doubt about that. Oh, but there were days. There were days when John would have liked nothing better than to throttle him.

Usually it was the days when Sherlock was _bored_.

John dreaded those days. Sometimes the boredom frightened him, because even though the scars had faded from his forearm, John had a few theories why he did it. He was convinced now that they were a thing of the past, but still. It frightened him. They came often enough, but not often enough that he couldn't handle them.

John was always trying to think of new ways to keep Sherlock _thinking, _to keep him _doing _but nothing was ever good enough for that bloke.

Like, the week before. John prided himself on the fact that he hadn't murdered him that day. He wondered idly if Sherlock would come back from the dead just to solve his own murder.

* * *

><p><em>It had been one of those lazy afternoons, when Sherlock's parents weren't home (bless them) and Mycroft was out, doing whatever shadowy work he did with his umbrella (bless him very much) and John was stretched out on Sherlock's messy bed, in his messy room, with messy-haired Sherlock bent over his microscope, examining whatever rubbish he had nicked from the woods outside school.<em>

_Although he wasn't completely sure where he had gotten it. Safer for his sanity not to ask._

_John was reading one of his numerous crime novels. It was surprising how many he had really, and John rather enjoyed the days when Sherlock would take one down and read out the first few pages in his deep, rumbling baritone, after which he would throw it away, denounce it 'boring' and tell him who the murderer was, all in the space of five minutes. Sometimes he would solve it by the end of the first page. On the days he was feeling particularly boastful, the first paragraph was all he needed._

_John's eyes were growing heavy as he lay there, reading...the words seemed to drift on the yellowed pages. And the sun was just filtering through those blue curtains; the slightest breeze ruffling his hair, might as well close his eyes, nothing was happening—_

_"Oh, for god's sake!"_

_John's eyes snapped open. He immediately sat up, turning around to see Sherlock standing up now, running his hands through his dark hair, his lips a hard, straight line. _

_"Sherlock," John muttered tiredly. "What is it?"_

_"John, how can you just lay there on that bed?" he demanded accusingly, waving his arms in his direction._

_John put the book back on the shelf. Here we go again¸ he thought. "What am I supposed to do? You're experimenting on some rodent brains or whatever—"_

_"Why would I be experimenting on rodent brains?"_

_"The point being, you great big lump—that nothing important is happening and I'm sleepy. Hence I was sleeping. Go on. Defy my logic."_

_"John. Stop this at once. I disapprove of this. You can't lay there and do nothing while I'm experimenting on rodent brains because I have—."_

_"But you just said –!"_

_—" nothing to do."_

_"No," John said determinedly, holding up a finger. "No, Sherlock don't say it."_

_"But John, I'm—"_

_"NO, Sherlock—"_

_"Bored! So bored!" Sherlock proclaimed loudly, and began to pace the room, ranting at the top of his lungs._

_"No murder for a month, John! What sort of a country do we live in? Quiet, John! It's quiet. Can't you see how distasteful it is? What am I expected to do? What can—"_

_John decided he didn't need to hear it. He flopped back against the pillows, closing his eyes. It was an art that took patience to master, but if you knew the method, you could drown out the sound of Sherlock's voice..._

_"...And Mycroft is making things difficult for me, as usual. One would think that one's brother would honour the relationship—I am no fan of sentiment, as you know, John, but—" He stopped momentarily. "John? John! Are you sleeping again? Have you not been listening to me?" He went over to the bed and shook his shoulder. "You are a dreadful friend, John. Number 5 in How to Make Friends is 'be a good listener.' And you're sleeping. It must be so nice being able to turn your brain off like that—"_

_"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Shut up!"_

_"But—"_

_"No! That's it. Shut up." He put his finger on Sherlock's lips. "Not. A. Word."_

_Sherlock didn't say anything, which wasn't very surprising, because John's finger was pinned against his lips. Which...was distracting._

_He brought it down. Sherlock looked at him, his pale eyes wide._

_"John, I think you are overreacting."_

_"Me? I'm overreacting? You're the one having a hissy fit because you have nothing better to do than dissect dead rats!"_

_"I was not dissecting them—"_

_"That is not the point! Sherlock, you can't expect someone to get murdered every other day just for your amusement!"_

_"But people do get murdered every day, John, it's statistics, someone may be getting murdered right this very moment!"_

_"You just helped Musgrave with the family property two bloody days ago!"_

_"Family property!" Sherlock began pacing the room once more, with his nose tragically up in air. "Yes, John, two days! Two days of utter boredom! That was hardly taxing, I need something, John! Dear god, John, can't you see? My brain will stagnate at this rate!"_

_"Sherlock stop acting like a raving lunatic and calm down!"_

_"Calm down? How on earth do you expect me to calm down? I'm bored, John! Hardly the state of affairs during which one would be expected to remain calm!"_

_John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Count to ten. Don't punch him. Don't punch him. What can we do to get him to shut up? Come on, Watson. Think._

_John opened his eyes. "Where are the games?"_

_Sherlock stopped and stared at John like he had gone mad. Which, in his defence, wasn't too far off. "What games?"_

_"The games! The games you said you used to play with Mycroft—"_

_"Why are you bringing up my brother? If you think this is a topic that would calm me down—"_

_"It's here somewhere, I've seen it," John jumped off the bed and began to crawl on the rug, looking underneath the bed and underneath the table, and in the dirtiest corners of Sherlock's room—under the glass cabinet where that horrid skull leered at him—_

_"John, it is your sanity I fear for now, I strongly advise you to get off the floor."_

_"Aha!" John held the longish cardboard box aloft. "I've found it!" He got up from the floor, dropping it on the bed. "Sit."_

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Cluedo? I've never played it. I don't play games. Especially not with Mycroft. And definitely not with you."_

_"Sherlock," John said, menacingly. "SIT."_

_~Twenty minutes later~_

_"No. Nope. No way. I am not playing this anymore." John rolled off the bed onto the carpet._

_Sherlock stared at him, appalled, the manic gleam in his eyes unwavering. "John, don't be boring! Why are you being boring?"_

_"Because the victim can't have done it, you idiot!"_

_Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, please, John, even you would be able to say it's the only possible solution."_

_"It's not in the rules, Sherlock!"_

_"Well then the rules are wrong!"_

_"Oh obviously!" John stood up. "Everyone's wrong expect you, aren't they?"_

_"Well, in this case, yes—"_

_John stomped out of the room and didn't return for an hour. Sherlock hadn't been able to find him anywhere in the house._

* * *

><p>Or the week before that. That had been an absolute disaster.<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Sherlock, where are we going?" School had just gotten over, and Sherlock had impatiently dragged John outside, away from the very normal conversation he was having with Mike. He didn't have many of those. But Sherlock was insistent.<em>

_"To the library!" he replied gleefully, picking up pace with those absurdly long legs of his._

_John rolled his eyes. "There is a library in the school, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock looked at him as if he had offended him greatly by uttering such nonsense. "You expect me to go to the school library for research? How degrading, John!" _

_"What research?"_

_"Research of the highest importance. Come."_

_The library was a good one, although John hardly ever frequented it. When they walked inside, Sherlock had immediately run off into the depths of the room, and John had resigned himself to the fact that he was about to spend two hours of absolute boredom during which Sherlock would flitter from shelf to shelf, complaining about said library's inadequacies. Just a regular day._

_The check out desk was empty, and there were very few people in the library. John leaned against the desk, thinking it better not to get involved with Sherlock at this moment. Although Sherlock had probably assumed John was behind him, which explained his muttering of, "John, this is absolutely distasteful. I can find nothing here!"_

_But thinking people might think Sherlock crazy because he was talking to himself, he followed him, into the Q-T section of the library. He was cursing under his breath, running his fingers down volume after volume, removing books, flipping through the pages aggressively, and shoving them back into any place._

_"Sherlock—"_

_"John, how am I to carry out my experiment at this rate?!"_

_"Sherlock—"_

_"Um, may I help you?" Sherlock had barely registered the voice, but John looked behind him to see a slender, pale girl nervously biting her lip and staring at Sherlock. She was about the same age as them, with dark red hair, wearing a pink jumper and jeans. _

_John shoved Sherlock. "She's asking you something."_

_"I haven't got time for trifles. Tell her to go away."_

_"Sherlock!" John looked apologetically at the girl. "I'm sorry. He's an idiot. I don't think he needs any help, thanks."_

_"Oh, that's alright. He's always going about like that," the girl stepped into the corridor and smiled at John. "He also usually ends up needing help, so I'll just wait here. He'll forget he said no and ask me all the same."_

_She was sort of pretty, John though. Sherlock was being his usual annoying self, so he might as well strike a conversation._

_"So you know him?"_

_"Oh, yes, he comes here quite often. I work here part time. I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper." She looked expectantly at Sherlock, but he was still looking._

_"John, John Watson." He stretched out his hand, and she shook it, but she kept on looking furtively at Sherlock. She was blushing. Oh dear God, he thought. Please don't tell me._

_"Are you a friend of his? He always comes alone."_

_"Oh, yeah. I've been told that. Yes, we're friends."_

_"Would the two of you stop flirting with each other and be quiet?" He looked accusingly at Molly. "Isn't this supposed to be a library? A rubbish excuse for it, yes, but a library all the same. Don't you have those horrendous posters everywhere? 'Maintain silence at all times' or something of the sort?"_

_Molly blushed a deep scarlet. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry."_

_"Stop being rude, you cock." John snapped._

_"Rude? Hardly. She's being highly inconsiderate." He turned to Molly. "Miranda. I need a book on the solar system. Go get it for me."_

_John gaped at him. Okay, he was really going to punch him this time. "Sherlock, her name is—"_

_"No, it's alright," Molly quickly said. "Yes, of course, I'll get one for you. It's not here, but there's another—"_

_"Why are you talking so much? Aren't you supposed to help people find books?"_

_"Yes, yes," She blushed again and left._

_"Sherlock, what was all that about?" John smacked the back of his head._

_"Ow!" Sherlock looked affronted. "What was that for?"_

_"Why were you being so mean to her? And her name is Molly, for god's sake, don't you come here often?"_

_"How is her name important to me? She's an assistant, she brings me books, our relationship doesn't warrant the use of each other's names."_

_"Maybe not, but it's called being polite, you insensitive berk."_

_"Polite? What a waste of time. Why would I do that?"_

_"Because I'm telling you to."_

_"But John—"_

_"Apologise to her when she comes back."_

_"What? John, I—"_

_"I said apologise, you twat." John crossed his arms and looked determinedly at him. _

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."_

_"And how could you not have noticed that she likes you?"_

_"Likes me? How on earth did you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock looked at him as though he had never met anyone more idiotic._

_"No one would stand your sunny personality unless they were genuinely attracted to you."_

_"Well, I don't care, and I'm sure she's aware that the feelings are not mutual."_

_"Oh, trust me, mate, I can see that. Would it hurt to not be an arse?"_

_"I am not an arse. You told me to apologise, I'll apologise."_

_"Good."_

_Molly came back then, panting, but smiling nervously. "Here," she said breathlessly, handing the book to Sherlock. "Sorry it took so long. I just—"_

_"Molly. That's your name isn't it?" Sherlock looked expectantly at her._

_"Yes," Molly replied, surprised._

_"Good. John had brought to my attention that you are currently romantically attracted to me. I feel it is—"_

_Molly's jaw dropped. "What?" she shrieked. She looked at John. "What?" she repeated. "No! No, no, no, I just...it's not—but I—"_

_John gaped at Sherlock. "You fool, that's not what I—"_

_"I feel," Sherlock continued, more insistently. "That it is my duty to inform you that this sort of thing is really not my area, so save yourself the trouble." Then he smiled widely, and said, "Thank you for the book."_

_Molly was still in a state of shock. John smacked his palm against his face, and the sight of John's despair seemed to remind Sherlock of something._

_"Oh, yes of course. Oh, and I'm..er...sorry."_

_Molly seemed to gain some of her composure. "For what?"_

_Now Sherlock looked uncertain. "I'm...not entirely sure. John informed me that I must, so I.."_

_"Okay!" John said loudly. "You've got your book! You've said sorry! Our work here is done. Come on, Sherlock!" Then he grabbed Sherlock's bicep and dragged him out, the dark haired boy still extremely confused with the situation._

_"John, I do not—"_

_"Shut it, Sherlock, or so help me, I will shut you up myself."_

_Sherlock did not speak._

* * *

><p>John smiled at the memory. Then he smiled at Sherlock, whose attention was currently fixed on whatever shnapp he had plopped under the microscope.<p>

They were in the chemistry lab right now; they had a free period, but it was raining outside so they couldn't go to the woods as usual. In fear of Sherlock declaring that he was 'bored' again, John had had the bright idea of suggesting he find something to do in the Chemistry lab.

"_Really John, you are excelling yourself today," he had said approvingly. "It may be that you are yourself not luminous but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing any real genius have the remarkable ability to—"_

"_I've got to confess, Sherlock, for a moment there I actually thought you were complimenting me."_

"_I _was _complimenting you," he replied primly._

He was looking at the bottles of chemicals in the glass cabinet, amusing himself by guessing them all while Sherlock worked quietly behind him, when two boys walked in.

John looked up, Sherlock took no notice. He recognized them both, but knew only one of them well enough to say hello.

"Hello, Victor. What are you doing here?" he smiled at him. He didn't like him very much, particularly, (and he didn't know why) but he always tried to be nice. _Unlike some people I know_, he thought wryly.

"What's up, John?" Victor smiled back at him, pulling out a stool and sitting down. "This is Henry, Henry Baskerville."

"Cheers, mate," John said, shaking his hand. He knew little about Henry except that he was rich; he lived in the Baskerville Estate in the country, and he was a year older than them. Henry returned his greeting.

"I'm not even going to try to greet Holmes, he looks busy," Victor joked.

John scoffed. "He's not busy, he's just occupying himself. If I leave him with nothing to do, he'll turn into a raving lunatic, complaining about how bored he is."

"I am conducting an experiment of the highest importance," Sherlock said defensively. "And your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think."

"Sherlock," John said warningly. "What have I said about being nice?"

"Your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think please thank you."

John rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he turned his attention back to the two boys. "What's up?"

"I'm having a party this weekend," Henry said. "Thought I'd invite the two of you."

John looked at them, surprised. They wanted to invite _them_? They wanted to invite _Sherlock_?

"I know what you're thinking mate, but honestly, I haven't got a problem with you _or _Holmes, and I doubt anyone else does. Well, maybe _him_. Sometimes." He poked a thumb at Sherlock.

John bristled immediately. "They just don't know him," he said.

"Yeah, I know. No offense mate," Henry held up his hands in surrender. "So, can you come? I know he won't go without you, and vice versa."

"Yeah, I don't see why not." John grinned. He hardly ever spoke to anyone else, except the boys on the rugby team. But he had noticed that no one had been mean or rude to him the last month. Well except Anderson and Donnavan. But they didn't count. So maybe that was a good sign?

"Excellent," They both shook hands with him again and left.

John sat next to Sherlock and said, "Well, how about that, huh?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, one dark eyebrow raised. "A _party_?"

"Yes, a party, Sherlock. They invited us, and it's not nice to say no. Not to their faces, at least."

"Boring. We're not going."

"Yes, we are."

"No, we're not."

"Sherlock!" John said exasperated. "Come on. You don't have any friends beside me, it'd do you good to socialize with other people."

"_Socialize? _With _people_? John, do you not know me at all?"

"I know you better than anyone else, which is why I'm telling you that you have to come."

"But _John_," he whined. "It's going to be tedious."

"Tedious or not, we should go. If you go and talk to other people, they'll realise you're not as much of a tosser as you think."

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you care what other people think of me?"

Sherlock had a knack of saying things that made John want to smack him upside the head and embrace him at the same time. But usually the urge to smack him was stronger.

"Because you're my friend, Sherlock, and I don't like it when other people think ill of you."

"Other people are boring. Why do their opinions matter?"

"Let's talk about the party. We are going. It'll be fun."

"No, it will not," Sherlock said disdainfully. "There will be _people, _and they will be drunk, because that's exactly what these parties entail. The alcohol won't even be _good,_ despite how posh Baskerville is. It will be a night of drunken debauchery and terrible music, with dreadful games like Twister and Spin the Bottle, people will try to deduce who likes who- and I promise you, their deductions will be off- and who's been shagging who—that's easy enough, a fool could tell you that, and you will get nothing from it except a headache and perhaps a stolen wallet."

John sighed. Well, there was only way to convince him.

He leaned forward. "Did you know that my uncle is a doctor?"

"I was aware that a close male relative was in the medical field, yes. Elementary."

"Yes, you're clever, of course you did. If you come with me to the party, I'll convince him to let you into the morgue and you can take home a body part to experiment on."

Sherlock immediately sat straighter. "_Any _body part?'

"As long as your request is reasonable."

"But _any _body part?"

"Yes." John smirked. "Do we have a deal?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know you were capable of bribery."

"Aren't I full of surprises?" John grinned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not like this <em>AT ALL.<em>

The music was too loud; the lyrics were hideous with barely-concealed sexual innuendos, the food was pathetic, the games more so, and he was growing tired of watching people grind against each other as if they were trying to make a fire.

Henry's house was nice enough, and big enough, and his parents were out of town. Everything was easily deducable, and while that had kept him occupied for a while, the music was preventing him from thinking clearly.

Then there were the _girl_s.

What part of, _Not My Area _did they not understand? There were at least three of them who asked him to dance with them. One of them was a serial adulterer, one had three cats (definitely not) and one was bisexual- and while Sherlock didn't care about anyone's sexuality, even a fool could tell that she was trying to make the redhead at the punch table jealous. And one girl specifically- Janine, her name was—who kept coming. When he declined her offer three times, she had giggled and said, "Oh, I get it. You're gay! I could get a boy for you, if you like."

John had burst out laughing at that. It had been worth it to see him laugh, but really, the constant offers were getting out of hand.

But John looked like he was having fun, and far be it for Sherlock to curtail that fun.

_Keep it together_, he told himself. _This is for John. And the promise of the body part. Make sure he doesn't forget. Remind him if he forgets. Keep on reminding him until he takes you there_.

Someone had shoved a can of beer in his hand, and Sherlock had scoffed and thrown it away. _Beer_. _Honestly? This is the highlight of the party? What a waste._

"Sherlock," John shouted in his ear over the music. The hair at the back of Sherlock's neck stood up at the proximity. "Go dance with Janine."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him appalled. "I am not here to dance!"

"At least _try _to have fun. Go on! You'll like it." John's hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were bright. Sherlock had a crazy, irrational urge to fix his hair into place.

"Did you know that Henry's father is a smuggler?"

"What?" John laughed. "Sherlock, you're here to enjoy yourself, not deduce. Go dance with Janine. She really likes you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Of course _John would say that. "I'm aware, she made her carnal intent crystal clear. But John, she's a _giggler_. You know I detest _gigglers._"

"Rubbish. She's pretty and clever. Go."

Before Sherlock could reply, someone walked up to the both of them. Girl, brunette, their age, in their year- he knew her. The same girl he had seen talking to John that day he had rushed home without him. She was a good enough student, she had an affinity for biology like John, but not better that John, her mother was a beautician and her father was in some sort of business- as far as he could tell—

"Sherlock!" John was shaking his shoulder. He looked at him.

"I'm going to dance with Sarah. I'm sending Janine."

"But, John—"

But Sarah had dragged him away.

Sherlock didn't like it. He didn't like Sarah, she wasn't good enough for John. _Well, then, who _was _good enough for him_? Now he had nothing to do. Obviously. What had he expected? He could hardly expect John to stay with him the whole time, people liked John- it was a tedious quality, in fact—so of course they would want John to hang out with them as well. Sherlock didn't have a _claim _over John, not more than anyone else. He knew all this. It was all very logical and all very rational, which was supposed to be comforting. Logic calmed him down. Why wasn't it working now? Why did the logic seem lopsided all of a sudden?

"Hey, you," Janine playfully pushed his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened. Now she was touching him. Why was she touching him? He did not want to be touched. Not now.

He looked at her. She fluttered her eyelashes and flipped her hair. She stank of alcohol and she was _definitely _not wearing anything under that dress. Dear God. John expected him to dance with _her_?

"Hello, Janine," he answered evenly. He didn't want to be rude. He had promised John that he would maintain a modicum of politeness today. But obviously, there would be a reasonable limit. If she started _touching _him again...

"Your little pet's dancing with Sarah. You look all blue standing here alone. Care to dance with me?"

"John is not my pet, he is my friend. And no, I would not. Please go away." He handed her the can of beer. "Here, drink this and get drunk."

Janine laughed. "It must be a pleasure being friends with you, Sherlock Holmes." She drank the beer. "Mmm. Is this yours?"

"Yes."

"Dance with me."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on. Look at John, he's dancing. You should too." And Sherlock did look, he saw John dancing with Sarah, and he looked like he was having fun, and he was spinning her around and laughing, and—

"Very well. Come on."

Janine grinned. "Oh, aren't you a darling," she drawled, and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the middle of the room. Sherlock decided not to upbraid her for this; they couldn't dance without touching. He _did _hope, however, that she would retain herself from rubbing against him, he didn't mind dancing, obviously, it had been a while since he had—but the grinding was _not _acceptable.

She smiled, hooking her arms behind his neck, and Sherlock gingerly placed his hands on her hips. Well, this was definitely no waltz. He would have to make do.

"You know how to dance!" she said excitedly, as they moved.

"Yes I do," he said. "Watch." He pulled away from her, holding on to her, spun her around, dipped her so low her hair swept the floor, and pulled her back up, against his chest.

"Whew," she breathed, blowing her hair off her face. "You're good."

They continued the dancing. "I know."

She pressed herself closer, which wasn't entirely welcome, but he didn't say anything. "So tell me. Are you really gay?"

"I erm..I don't really identify myself as anything," he answered honestly. Although he didn't see the point of discussing his sexuality.

"Oh, still finding your way, are you? Understandable." They twirled around some more.

Sherlock made a noncommittal nose as he spun her around. She seemed to like that.

"I always thought—well most of the school thinks—you and John, you know."

"John is not gay."

"Obviously, seeing from the way he's getting it on with Sarah."

"What?" Sherlock frowned at her. His grip slackened a bit, but he fixed it. _Sloppy dancing_, he chided himself.

"Well—oooh—" she exclaimed. "Looks like's having fun," She gestured to somewhere behind them.

"What are you talking about?" Nevertheless, he spun them around smoothly to see what she was gesturing to.

The last time he had seen John, he had been dancing with Sarah. Which wasn't pleasant, but understandable. Now John was still dancing, but they were dancing closer now, and...kissing.

Sherlock stopped dancing.

"Sher—" Janine started to say.

"I have to go," he said, his voice shaking a little.

"But—"

He pushed her away and moved the throng of dancers, only one thought in his mind: _I must get out of here_.

He was being illogical. Again. He knew that John would have wanted to go home together, Sherlock would have dropped him off at the station, or Mycroft would come and pick them up, but—but—there John was, with his lips on Sarah's, dancing like—like—

_Why does it bother you so much_?

Sentiment always bothers me.

_Your friendship with John says otherwise_.

Indeed. Why _did _it bother him? It shouldn't. John was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, to _do _whoever he wanted, and Sherlock was a fool if he thought no one would want to kiss John. It wasn't like _he _wanted to kiss John, how ridiculous. It wasn't as if he was—was—_jealous_. No, of course not. That was a degree of sentiment he was not capable of. He was fond of John, of course, but that certainly didn't mean he would be jealous of Sarah, who was dancing with John, who was holding him like that, kissing him like that—

No. The very idea was ludicrous.

He was at the door, about to leave, when someone grabbed his shoulder.

"Sherlock, where're you going?"

He turned around to John, who was panting, and whose cheeks were pink from dancing and lips red from kissing.

"I'm going home," he said brusquely.

"Wait, what? Sherlock, we agreed—"

"I've kept my side of the agreement, John. I've been here for two hours, which in my opinion is more than enough. This party is dull and Janine is dull, and I am leaving."

"But I thought—"

"Well, you thought _wrong_, didn't you?"

Sherlock immediately knew from John's face that he had said too much. _You idiot_, he chastised himself, but the damage was done.

"John, I'm—" he started, in a pathetic attempt to fix it.

"No," John held up a finger. "Don't say you're sorry. You're right. I just thought that you would had fun here, and you would suck it up long enough for me to have fun. I would never have come here without you, you know that, and I'm always with you when you need to go to the sodding library, or you're 'bored', if you have a mad urge to investigate the murder in the next town, but—"

"How the hell am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

He immediately regretted it. He was not supposed to say anything that would upset John. He was not supposed to upset John, full stop. This was possibly the worst thing he could do. Then why had he said it?

"What has Sarah got to do with anything?" John demanded.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, quickly, moving towards the door. "Forget I said it."

"No," John held his shoulder to hold him back. "Do you not like Sarah?"

"I _detest _Sarah. How could you not have picked up on that?"

"Not all of us are bloody geniuses, you twat!" Sherlock flinched at the tone of his voice. John had shouted at him many times, but John had never been quite so angry. The situation was going further and further from his control. Why couldn't he just stay shut? Now John was mad, and if he—if he—no. He mustn't think like that. John wouldn't leave him over something as silly as this.

Or would he?

"John, I must leave."

"Look, I know she's rude, and I've told her that she needs to be nice to you if she wants to talk to me at all, and she understands that—"

"John." Sherlock bent down so he could look John in the eyes. "It doesn't matter. Go. Dance with her. Victor will take you home, I've told him. Goodbye."

"Sherlock-!"

"Bye."

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood impatiently outside the massive iron gates, half hoping John would come after him. But he didn't. He drew his coat closer around him, turning up the collar; it was cold. December was on its way.<p>

_Don't be mad, John_, he thought. But he wondered if _he _was mad with him. It would be irrational. And he hated lack of reason. And for a stupid reason as that.

He angrily tapped a number on his phone.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft drawled. "Having a good time?"

"What do you _think_?" Sherlock spat. "It's a party. With people and alcohol. What kind of a time do you _think _I'm having?"

"You sound upset. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Why did you call?"

"Come and pick me up."

"So soon? I told mummy you would be home by eleven."

"Mycroft, stop being tedious and asking me questions. Just come and pick me up."

"Is John with you?"

"No."

Pause on the other side for a few moments. "It's a girl, isn't it?"

"Mycroft..."

"Obviously. You cannot possibly imagine that your friendship with John Watson makes him unavailable to the other sex, Sherlock."

"I'm perfectly aware of that!" he snapped. "Come and pick me up."

"I warned you not to get involved."

"_I'm not involved_. .UP."

"I'm ten minutes away. Try not to set anything aflame until I'm there."

* * *

><p>The ride home had been tedious.<p>

Sherlock's parents were seated in the living room when he walked in, which he was not ready for.

_Please don't talk to me_, he prayed.

"Sherlock, why are you home so soon?"

"Weren't you supposed to come home by eleven?"

"He didn't have fun, of course not, we warned him not to go."

"Where's John? He must have left him behind."

"I _told _Mycroft that their friendship was not compatible."

"Would the both of you _shut up_?" Sherlock screamed at them. _Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. Be calm. Go to your room._

His parent raised their eyebrows. "Sherlock, dear, it isn't _our _fault you didn't enjoy yourself. We _know _it's hardly somewhere you would fit in. That's why we told you not to go, we understand you better than you understand yourself." His father said.

"John should have brought you home, shouldn't he have? What do you think, Joyce? I can understand why he didn't _want _to, of course—"

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock muttered, and left.

He trudged upstairs, opened his room, and began searching.

_Where was it? Where the hell had he kept them_?

He ransacked his room, reduced it to shambles; he checked the books on the shelf, flipped through their pages, checked underneath the mattress, underneath the bed, under the rugs, underneath the skull, scattered the carefully laid notes on his desk and rummaged through the drawers; he pushed his fingers under the photos on the display board, took off the display board and looked behind it, everywhere, everywhere until..._aah._

His fingers trembled as he held the little box.

There had been days when he would get so _bored _and _depressed _that he couldn't go to sleep without it, couldn't go a day without it. He saw no reason in stopping.

Until John.

John had suddenly come into his life, without any warning; a variable dropped into a perfectly balanced equation, and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The perfect rules that Sherlock guided his life upon, were ceaselessly bent and distorted and now he had to see everything in a different light.

And the experience was...not unpleasant.

The blinding need that would consume him, the desire that gripped his soul and his brain like a vice, to end the insanity inside his head, had suddenly vanished. He didn't need to, not anymore. Every day with John seemed like a new challenge, a puzzle for him to solve, his brain was always, always occupied, interested. John never bored him.

But today the need sparked inside him again; today was a bad day. Sherlock never did them for a stupid reason, it was only on those dark, depressing days when he would be so bored, that he would be in need of a fix. But never...never for something as..._sentimental_ as this. No, never.

He plunged in the needle.

_Bliss._

The world seemed to fade from focus, everything seemed to slow down, and with a sigh of relief he fell against the rug, the syringe rolling from his palm.

It was short while later (or a long while, Sherlock had no idea) that someone knocked on his door.

_Mycroft._

He didn't even wait for an answer, casually strode in.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the—_oh." _

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, turning away from the door and curling up into a tight ball as if to save himself from a physical attack.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft's tone was despairing, something he didn't hear often. He heard the door click shut behind him, and footsteps come closer. He felt him bend down next to him, pick something up and throw it in the bin.

"Get up."

"No. Go away."

"Sherlock, explain. Please."

He sat up then, leaning against the bookshelf as he did so. He felt so _horrible_. Wasn't it supposed to feel good?

"What was it this time, hmm?" Mycroft's grey eyes were tinged with anger and worry. The frown lines on his forehead made him seem much older than he was. "Cocaine or heroin?"

"It was cocaine, I haven't any of the other," Sherlock's lips twitched upwards.

Mycroft sighed tiredly, and sat down next to him. "Why, Sherlock?" he simply asked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on Mycroft's bare feet, the hem of the blue pyjamas he was wearing. _Good question_, he thought. _Why indeed_?

"You're too stupid to understand," he decided on saying. It sounded petulant and foolish, but then, this was _Mycroft_. Hardly someone who deserved a mature response from him.

He could feel him roll his eyes. "If you keep going, you know I will send you to rehab."

Sherlock turned sharply to face him. "You wouldn't dare."

"You know I would, Sherlock. You know that when I decide to do something I do it. Unless you explain this behaviour to me, I will send you off tomorrow itself."

Sherlock groaned, carding his fingers in his hair. He tugged mercilessly, hoping that the pain would help him to think. "It's ridiculous."

"I thought so. I don't want to have this discussion with you when you're high, although perhaps this is the best time to speak to you. Go on."

"It's just, that...oh, for God's sake, Mycroft. Why do I care so much? Is there something wrong with me?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, his eyes weary. "It's John, isn't it?"

His name felt like a slap on his face. What point was there of hiding it from Mycroft? Bugger that he was, he would realise anyway.

He nodded.

Mycroft sighed; a long, tired sigh that was perhaps far more telling than any words would be. He leaned his head back against the bookshelf, and for some odd reason, the presence of his brother beside him, _listening_...was strangely comforting.

"All lives end, brother dear. All hearts are broken. Haven't I told you? Caring is not an advantage."

"And I know that. Which is why it's so shocking that I seem to be disregarding that golden rule entirely. It's worked well enough for me in the past."

"Sherlock, although I have never denied the truth of that statement, I would never dream of imposing it on you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I _never _understand what you're saying. You're terrible at explaining yourself. You're terrible at most things."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What I'm saying, Sherlock, is this...I have always entertained the possibility of you..._disregarding _that rule. It's such a you thing to do."

"How the hell is it a me thing to do?"

"Because you never follow rules. Since when have you followed rules?"

Sherlock shrugged, but couldn't deny the truth of the statement.

"You see, Sherlock...when you allow yourself to feel, it makes you..." He paused for a moment. "Susceptible to pain. And hurt. And loss. I've always been in favour of avoiding those particular emotions, and I've been successful so far. Recent circumstances claim that you, however, have not."

"Mycroft, if this is some other lecture about what a _disappointment _I've been—"

"I do not think you are a disappointment, Sherlock. I think the very fact that you're lying here impossibly high is a tribute to the fact that you've realised the true use of emotions after all. That, I feel, is a better success that listing 243 kinds of tobacco."

"What are you _saying_? Where are you sprouting all this rubbish from? And the tobacco list was useful."

"I'm sure it was," Mycroft got up smoothly. "What I am saying, Sherlock, is this; caring is not an advantage, but that doesn't stop anyone from caring. And it shouldn't stop you either." He waved a hand about vaguely. "I hope this is the last time you do this."

Mycroft walked out then, and Sherlock lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, his brother's words swirling around and around in his head; _Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage ..._until they unknowingly lulled him to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, I did warn you what this fic would entail...so, I'm not going to apologise for the direction the fic is taking. And I'm assuming you would have seen the 'Angst' part of the description, so.**

**On a different note, hope you enjoyed that. **

**Remember; All ships sink at some point. ;-)**

**And as usual, my review rant. I know y'all are reading my story, which I appreciate, but your reviews really perk me up, so please do drop a line! They keep me writing. Complaints, suggestions, whatever. Don't hold back.**

**I don't know when I'll be updating next, my finals are on their way and I will need to study. (sucks. Totally.) so I'll do it when I'll have a bit of time to spare, which...will take a while. But don't despair! I promise I will. :)**

**Get working on that review, would you? ;)**

**See you later, guys!**


	8. Chapter 8

:8:

**A/N: Greetings, readers and friends. So I'm bringing y'all a bit of holiday cheer with a shiny new chapter. It hasn't got much of Christmas in it, there **_**will **_**be a Christmas chapter, but that'll be a few chapters later so it sorts of destroys the point...ehehe. But this is my holiday gift to you while we all wait for the 2014 christmas special (is it going to happen this month or not? I mean, they **_**said **_**it would. (So quick question for you UK ( or America) dwellers: any news on that front? I live in India and I have to see all my episodes online. So if any of you know anything about that...PM me! :D ) Sorry about the babbling. Better just let you read the story I worked so hard for.**

**Oh and I don't have beta, so just ignore the typos. :D**

**PS: Thank you for your follows and reviews. As ever, they make me extremely happy and it makes me even happier to know that people are reading and enjoying my story.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Because if it was...well then ours boys would shag a whole lot more.**

* * *

><p>John woke up that morning with a throbbing pain in his head, which was kind of pathetic, because he didn't even drink anything last night.<p>

He pressed his fingers against his temples, wondering why he was feeling so horrible. He felt...incomplete, somehow. As if he had forgotten to do something terribly important. He lay on his back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling until he remembered.

The events of last night swept past him, in blinding Technicolor, and just like that, _Sherlock._

Guilt. Raw, undiluted guilt washed over him like a fucking wave and John needed to sit up to quell the overwhelming roll of nausea that went along with it. He wanted to be mad, he really wanted to be angry at Sherlock for just leaving like that, but he _couldn't_. Because he was Sherlock's friend, god damn it, he was the one who was supposed to _get _him.

The party was a stupid idea. Stupid, ridiculous, god-awful insane. To think that Sherlock would enjoy himself there, with all those people around him...it was laughable. Why the hell would he drag him along to what would be, quite plainly, torture for him? John should have been glad that Sherlock found him the most tolerable specimen of the human race, he should have just _left it at that_.

_How am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?_

Why would he say that? Surely he wasn't...jealous? But the very idea seemed mad. Sherlock wouldn't feel _jealous_. John didn't want him to jealous...did he?

John wanted to see him desperately, so they could talk and make amends and everything could go back to normal again. His friendship with Sherlock had become such a regular, immovable part of his life that the need to fix things was almost an aching longing inside of him. They had fought before, but John had never seen Sherlock so pissed off. Should he be the first one to apologise? Should he make the first move?

John groaned. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was like navigating a minefield. You had to re think every single step.

* * *

><p>He was halfway through his breakfast when he heard his phone ringing in his bedroom. He left his half finished breakfast and ran up the stairs.<p>

"Hello?"

"Are you finished with your breakfast?" Mycroft's voice was cool, crisp; cutting into the phone like ice.

"Er..." John stammered, feeling a bit taken aback. "Not quite. Why exactly have you called?"

"I wish to speak to you. My car is outside. Get dressed and come."

"Wait, I—"

"I am not in the habit of repeating instructions, John. Get dressed and get in the car."

"Um...okay."

_It sounds like he's kidnapping me_, John thought. Was he going to take him away to some far-away location and murder him? It seemed exactly the kind of crazy thing he would do...maybe stab him with his umbrella. But then, if he wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it himself, he clearly wasn't the kind of man to get his hands dirty.

So John shovelled down the rest of his breakfast, (they were good pancakes, he was definitely not wasting them) dressed hurriedly in a jumper and jeans, told his mother he was going to Sherlock's.

"_John, why don't you bring him over one day? I still haven't met him!_

"_I will, mum! Bye. Love you!"_

He went outside, where the familiar black car was parked in the driveway.

_Back seat or front seat_?

He opened the back door and climbed into the plush leather seats, feeling very awkward and un-coordinated.

Mycroft smiled politely at him and didn't start speaking until he began to drive.

"I am taking you to our house. I feel that you and Sherlock need to communicate."

_Strange choice of words_. "We _do _communicate."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, that's actually quite convenient. I was thinking of going anyway."

"Admirable. Before we reach, however, I want to talk to you about something."

"Okay." Unease pricked the back of John's neck. He had never been alone with Mycroft, he suddenly wished that Sherlock was here. Well, technically, he always wished for Sherlock's presence. He didn't know exactly what that said about him.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?"

John stared at him for a few moments, first in shock, and then in anger. "I thought you were aware that we were friends. That being said, I don't see how it's any of your business."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him from the rearview mirror. "You're not very afraid of me, are you?"

"I would be if you were frightening," John could feel his temper rising. _Guess arrogance runs in the family_.

He smiled at that. "Friends," he said, like he was testing the word. "Yes, you are, aren't you? Very well. I will be satisfied with answer for now. Now tell me what happened last night."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm going to speak about that to Sherlock anyway. I don't think I need to tell you."

"John, I worry about him _constantly_. I want to hear it from you."

"Look, it's really silly. I can't even make sense of it myself. When I speak to Sherlock, he'll tell you."

"Fine," Mycroft said, quietly. "But whatever it was, it affected him very strongly. He has been moping since yesterday and has been increasingly impossible to handle. He is becoming unreasonably fixated on you, my brother. I don't know what I would do if this..." he waved his hand about vaguely, "_Friendship_ of yours were to end."

John frowned, and a sick feeling settle in the hollow of his stomach. He was close to puking out the pancakes. "W-what do you mean..._moping_? Is he okay?"

Mycroft's pale grey eyes looked at him from the mirror, the eyes that were so like Sherlock's in their inability to miss anything. There was a slight twinge of pity in them. "Understand, John, that Sherlock is not used to these bouts of _emotion_. Which is why he is more prone to...getting hurt."

"Hurt? He's hurt? I hurt him? What are you talking about?" John flinched at the rising panic in his voice.

"While your concern is admirable, it is misplaced. You see, John, Sherlock may have this petty hatred for me, but believe it or not, I _do _care about my brother. And through the years I have removed any negative influences in his life. I do not want you to be...what must be removed."

"Removed? _Removed_? Nobody is _removing _me. Sherlock can make his own decisions," John snapped. "You can't decide his friends for him. And I don't know what delusional world you're living in Mycroft, but I would _never _hurt Sherlock. He's as important to me as he is to you, but your brother is a headstrong, arrogant _arse _so of course we'll have disagreements. But I've known him long enough and I know how to handle him. I want him to be happy, he makes me happy, and sometimes I do the same for him. I know you do this from love, but our friendship isn't an _experiment." _

"John—"

They had already reached Sherlock's house, so John got out, not wanting to hear the rest of the line. He did however, lean into the driver's seat window and say, "I'm unreasonably fixated on him too, no worries. I don't plan on leaving him as long as he wants to be my friend. So."

Then he left, feeling a grim satisfaction at leaving him staring open mouthed like that.

He opened the gates, jogging up the familiar path of gravel, to knock loudly on the door.

The butler opened the door, smiling politely in recognition of John

"Cheers, Mr. Rogers. Is Sherlock home?" he stepped inside.

"Yes, sir, he's upstairs, I think he's asleep."

"Excellent."

He knocked on the door twice, to which the familiar rumble of Sherlock's voice answered from inside, "Go away."

_Ah, Sherlock_, he though endearingly. John opened the door.

Sherlock was curled up on the floor under a bed sheet, only the mop of thick dark curls visible from under the covers.

"Morning, Sherlock."

He immediately sprang up, with a loud exclamation of "John!" and leaped out of the corners.  
>"Jesus, Sherlock!" John complained, turning away, horribly aware of the burning heat on his cheeks. "Put on some bloody clothes!"<p>

"Clothes?" he repeated, completely unconcerned by the fact that he was just wearing a pair of red boxers.

John rolled his eyes, trying to banish the image of Sherlock half naked from his mind, the image of that lean, hard torso, and the prominent collarbone, the angular bones just under the waistline, and the thin line of hair that disappeared under his red boxers...

_Snap out of it you fool. What is wrong with you_?

"It's winter, you twit, put on something warm," John told him again.

"John, you can _look_ at me. I am not _naked_."

_Didn't seem very far from it, though, _thought John, and forced himself to look at him again, all pale, angular features and lanky, elegant limbs.

"I don't recall taking off my clothes last night," he mused, rummaging in his closet. "Must have removed them at some point. " He pulled a grey t-shirt over his head, saying, "I like to sleep without restrictions." He pulled out a pair of black pyjamas and pulled them on as well.

"Oh, you do, do you?" John was alarmed with his shriller than usual voice.

"There. Is this decent enough for you?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the bed.

John seemed to notice his face for the first time now; his skin was paler than usual, and with his usual tone, it was almost white. His hair was dishevelled and messy, exactly what he had thought Sherlock would look like when he woke up (not he thought about that, obviously), his lips cracked and shadows under his eyes.

"You look ill," he said, and there it was again, that god forsaken _guilt _bubbling up inside him again.

"I am not ill," he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"How long did you sleep last night?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know I can manage on little sleep, John. I'm fine."

John nodded, deciding not to argue. He went and sat next to Sherlock, on the foot of the bed; so close that he could breathe in his familiar scent; he hadn't showered last night, probably, the cologne he had used last night still clung to him, and there was the slight smell of sweat and exhaustion, mingling with the comforting fragrance of sleep.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John shook himself out of his wayward thoughts again. He looked at Sherlock again, now, and noticed his multi-coloured, pale eyes, searching every inch of his voice, ceaselessly deducing, guessing, cataloguing. He never seemed to stop.

"I think we should talk about last night," He finally said, sounding uncertain, weary, which was a new for Sherlock, whose confidence constantly crossed the line into arrogance. "It's the thing to do, isn't it?"

"I suppose." John replied. Sherlock looked completely out of his depth, which tugged at John's heart a little. He always felt like that when Sherlock was confused, or uncertain, because his regular state of being was being sure of _everything_. Sherlock _not _knowing was so rare, and so out of place, that John was always longing to end it and put him at ease again.

"John, I want to say, that..." he licked his lips, his fingers unconsciously moving to his wrist to fiddle with his cuffs, but they just brushed against the bare skin there. "I think I should, at least...you know..."

"Sherlock," John said evenly, touching his chin and forcing him to look into his eyes. The gesture didn't seem odd. His eyes looked back, looking grey in the wintry sunlight streaming from the window. "Don't. It's my fault. I'm sorry. Really."

"No, no, no," Sherlock rapidly shook his head, getting up. "No, you see, I planned this. I was to say, I'm sorry, and you would reply with 'it's okay' and we'd be friends again."

John gaped at him. "We never...we never stopped being _friends_, Sherlock. We would never..._never_—that's not—how can you think that?"

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm...glad to hear that. Yesterday was...yesterday I acted rashly. I just...it's stupid. It won't happen again."

"No," John said determinedly, standing up, and coming close to Sherlock. Close enough to touch him. He placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and looked up at him, into those what-colour-_is-_that eyes. He could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his T-shirt, and he wondered if the rest of him was as flushed. He licked his lips. "No, no way. Sherlock. I shouldn't have forced you. You don't know anyone there...and I was dancing with Sarah, and I left you alone...and...god, it was a disaster, wasn't it?" He laughed a bit.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a slight smile. John could have jumped for joy. Sherlock smiling was truly a sight to behold. "That's an adequate description of last night, yes."

John sat down on the bed. He breathed heavily. "Definitely not doing it again."

"No, never," he agreed. "Let's take our minds off it." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yes, a plan. I have decided that today we will do something that you would like to do."

John frowned at him. "Where is all this coming from?"

"John, you're so _slow _sometimes," he said impatiently. "Yesterday you told me that you always went along with me when I went to the...'sodding library'-" he air quoted the words- 'and for murders and the like. So, I—"

"Sherlock, I was angry. It doesn't matter—"

"John, don't interrupt, it's very impolite. So, since you always come along with me, today we will do something _you _find fun." He smiled then, wait, no, it was more of a grin- a wolfish grin with too much teeth that stretched his face unnaturally. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

John felt warm inside, all of a sudden, a warm, fuzzy feeling in the very pit of his stomach. Sherlock was actually doing something _nice _for him.

"You're being nice."

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course I'm being nice. You're my best friend."

John gaped at him. "I'm—what."

"My best friend," Sherlock said impatiently. "Do keep up, John."

"I'm your best friend?"

"Why are you asking me that when I've already answered you?"

John grinned. "You're my best friend too."

Sherlock smiled shyly. Bloody hell, his face looked so..._lovely _when he smiled like that. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, what do you want to do today?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock, you do realise that I _enjoy_ all that? Not as much as you do, obviously, I don't jump for joy when I hear the word 'murder' but I like it. I like doing it with you. I wouldn't be friends with _you _if I didn't."

"I know," Sherlock said, almost fondly. "That's why you're my best friend. But we'll do something _normal _today. What do you want to do?"

"We could sleep and watch crap telly." The thought of lazing around all day with Sherlock sounded absolutely _delicious _to John.

"Dear God, is this your idea of 'fun'? I thought people like you did things like...go to the pub. Or spend money to watch useless, plot-less movies."

"People like me? Oh, Sherlock, you're making me blush."

He stared at him for a few seconds. "Sarcasm?"

John nodded. "Sarcasm."

"I'm getting better at it, aren't I?"

"You're making marvelous progress," John said, dryly. "Alright. We'll go watch a plot-less movie. I'll wait outside. Put on some more clothes." He started to walk out.

"_More _clothes? I think this is perfectly—"

But John had stopped listening a second ago, because he found something in the dust bin which he was not expecting to see.

A syringe.

John stopped, staring at it. It didn't make sense. He thought...Sherlock hadn't..._the marks—_but..._why?_

"John, what are you—" he turned around then, his voice hitching as the words stopped, invariably following his line of vision.

"John, it's not—"

John turned to him, and the expression on his face must have been livid, because Sherlock shut up immediately, looking fearful.

John bent, and picked up the syringe, turning it around in his fingers. Then he turned to him completely, facing him. He walked right up to him—_god, he was so angry right now—_and shoved the syringe right in front of his face.

"Explain," he said roughly.

"John,—" Sherlock's eyes widened in panic.

"I thought you didn't do them anymore!" John literally shrieked, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I saw the marks on your arms for _weeks _and I never said a word, because they were fading, and then—and then _this_, Sherlock!" he waved the syringe for emphasis. "Why?"

Sherlock reached out and plucked it out of his hand, throwing it behind him. "I _did _stop."

John raised his eyebrows, "And it just manifested itself out of thin air, yeah?"

Sherlock turned away from him, his fingers tangling themselves roughly in his air. "John, it's—it's difficult. I used to do them..._all the time_, but—but—I stopped, when _you _came."

John frowned. "What?"

He turned around then, his eyes frantic, speaking very quickly, like he was afraid John would vanish if he stopped talking. "John, I never had a reason to stop before you came. It was just— I _had _to, John, you don't understand—the madness inside my head, it's just crammed with these _thoughts_—each of them begging to be addressed and examined— ceaselessly swirling round and round, never _stopping. _That's why I get so bored, because I look at everything, and I _see _everything- I can see that you used an electric blade this morning, I know that you had pancakes, and I'm aware that Mycroft dropped you off and you had an unpleasant conversation with him of some sort- I can deduce the whole world top to bottom, John, and then I haven't anything to _do _because nothing is interesting. It's so dull, and boring, and I can't, I just can't—"

He seemed to have run out of words to explain the situation, but his hands were still moving, trembling with the depth of the words.

He looked at John, his eyes big, and weary, and John wanted to be _angry _at him, he wanted to shout and scream and shake his shoulders and _demand _to know why Sherlock would destroy the most extraordinary gifts he had, but he just felt _sad_. He looked at Sherlock, those pale, luminescent eyes searching his face desperately, the trembling of those lips... and the anger just rushed out of him.

He sighed. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock slid to the floor, leaning against the bed, drawing his knees to his chest. "I understand if you want to leave. I've been expecting this to happen."

John sat down in front of him. He longed to touch him, because it hurt him that Sherlock thought so less of him. He was _really _pissed right now, but Sherlock could have murdered a person and John would have helped him hide the body.

"I'm not going anywhere. Don't be dramatic." He seemed to visibly relax at those words. "What did you mean, you never had a reason to stop before I came?"

Sherlock looked shocked. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not obvious, sorry."

"John, you're..._you_. You keep me interested. When I'm with you, I'm never..._bored_. So I don't need it."

Oh, god. The things he said. If he had _any _idea...

"If I'm enough, why did you take them yesterday?"

Sherlock bit his lip. John felt his gaze drop, in spite of everything. Then he ripped it away. "Yesterday...was a lapse in judgement. It won't happen again. I promise. John...I promise." The words has almost a manic edge to them, and John longed to comfort him, but...but...

"Sherlock, you can't take them every time you're bored."

"Oh, John," Sherlock groaned, "Don't you _see_? Your mind—it's so placid, straightforward, barely used—"

"Gee, thanks—"

"Mine is like an engine, racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad- I _need _them, John—" he paused. "Well, I used to. I won't. Not again. If you tell me to." He looked at him almost beseechingly, his eyes wide and his thick dark hair sticking up every which way from where his fingers had tangled in them.

"I'm not telling you. I'm ordering you. Sherlock, that was _cocaine_. It messes you up. Badly. You're so talented, you're _gifted_, you're a bloody genius and you want to ruin it with...with _drugs_?"

"They don't affect me the way they affect other people." _Fuck this bloke, he had the audacity to act superior when he had probably been high as a kite just a few hours ago. _

"You're _human_, Sherlock, of course it affects you. You're so smart, you're so..." John couldn't even find words to explain what he _was_. "Brilliant, you bastard, you're brilliant. Do you know the cost? Do you know how much it will _ruin _you?"

"I—"

"No, you bloody well don't!" he shouted, angry again. "Sherlock, if you overdose on this— you'll—" his voice shook. "You'll _die_. Have you ever thought about that?"

"I would never OD," he said almost stiffly, and John could have strangled him.

"_How do you know_?"

"John, I won't do it again. It's...it is a distraction. _Was,_" he added, at the expression on John's face. "A distraction that I don't need anymore, because I have you."

"Yes, you have me," the words were simple enough, but they were so heavy with meaning and concern that it was almost difficult to get them out of his mouth. "_Will _you be able to stop? Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Of course he knows. He wants to send me to _rehab._ As if I would need _rehab. _Of all the dull, boring, mundane—"

"Rehab would help," John said hesitantly.

"I'm not an addict! I can stop when I want to."

"Have you stopped before?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "I've never _completely _stopped, no...but...I'm sure I can."

John sighed. "If you ever feel like you need a fix, you'll call me, okay?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Okay."

"I am serious."

"I know."

"Good."

"Can we go for that movie now?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock wore clothes after a great deal of badgering from John, but finally consented to jeans (<em>how juvenile, John!) <em>and the purple shirt that he seemed overly fond of. It was a good shirt, John thought. A very good shirt indeed. It might have had something to do with the fact that it was rather tight and stretched across Sherlock's chest rather...pleasantly, but John banished that thought form his mind as immediately as it came. He also forced a jumper over his reluctant head.

("_Well, at least it's not as hideous as your jumpers."_

"_My jumpers are not hideous."_

"_Denial is a very potent coping mechanism.") _

It was _freezing _outside, how could he let him go out in a shirt and jeans?

And of course, Sherlock would not leave the house without his Belstaff. John didn't mind. John _far _from minded. It made him look even more Shakesperean and Byronesque, which was Sherlock's natural state of being. Also, it was long enough to grab on to if Sherlock suddenly decided to run after a serial killer. Being friends with Sherlock meant you had to consider all possibilities, the more dangerous, the more likely.

"Sherlock," he asked, when they were going down the stairs. "Are we _really _going to watch a movie?"

He stopped, midway on the stairs themselves. "Do you not want to? You must tell me. Today we're going to do what _you _want to do."

"No, no," John shook his head. "I've got absolutely no problem. A movie is the most normal thing you could think of," he began walking again, and Sherlock followed him, "And since I don't do a great many normal things, it's very welcome."

"But you said you _liked _doing the not-normal things," Sherlock complained.

"I do. If I didn't like normalcy, we wouldn't be best friends. But I like doing them with _you_. I wouldn't stand this behaviour from anyone else."

"Well, I hope not," he huffed in reply.

They were about to leave when John remembered something and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar before he walked out. "Breakfast."

"But, John—"

"Nope," John said simply, and dragged him like that to the kitchen. "No, we're not leaving until you've eaten something." He saw the housekeeper there, wiping the kitchen counter.

"Your fixation with food is slightly unhealthy," Sherlock mumbled, tripping slightly because of all the dragging.

"No, your aversion to it is unhealthy. I am a _healthy _human being with a _healthy _attitude towards food. _You're _the one who's waging an eternal war because you're too petty to realise that your body needs nutrition."

"My body can function fine with—"

"Ms. Turner," John said loudly, to the housekeeper, who was watching their interaction raptly, and turned to John with a look of awe on her face. "Could you get him something to eat, please?"

"Ms. Turner, there is no need to get me anything. John and I were just leaving." Sherlock was literally vibrating with the impatience of getting out of the kitchen.

"The cake. The rum cake from the lady across the street. Give him that, he likes cake."

"I don't—"

John turned to him, with a raised eyebrow. "Are your really going to argue with me over one slice of cake? I don't care what you say, but I am going to shove it down your throat if I need to."

Sherlock consented to the cake.

Getting him to eat was one of the highest achievements of John's life. Watching him shovel down the cake with a thoroughly annoyed expression on his face calmed John a great deal. He continued to mutter under his breath as they as they reached the door, Sherlock pushing it open.

And despite all that had transpired in the last twenty four hours, John felt _happy_. He wanted to drag Mycroft here and show him Sherlock's face and prove to him that he was also _happy_. Yes, he looked disgruntled and annoyed (he _always _looked like that) but he was radiating this warm glow of contentment that John felt so happy about that he wanted to frame this moment and keep it in his pocket forever.

He could almost feel Sherlock rumbling inside his head, _Sentiment, John._

He smiled.

And then the smile faded.

There was a girl leaning against the gate outside the house, a _really _pretty girl who waved at them as they walked towards her.

He could _feel_ the scowl on Sherlock's face. "_What_ is she doing here?" he muttered, swallowing the rest of the cake. And then, when they were in front of her, he looked down at her and asked her the very same question, with perhaps a bit more venom than before.

She was slender, as tall as John; with long dark hair and an angular face, silvery-blue eyes and bright red lips. She was dressed in a tiny dress with stockings and boots, and she was smiling at Sherlock in a way that made John feel highly uncomfortable.

"It's been a while since I saw you last, love. You keep getting lovelier every time I do." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, as she brushed the crumbs that still stuck to lips.

_Love? LOVE? Why was she calling him 'love'? She wasn't...was she? Why was she touching him like that?_

"How long have you been waiting here?" John definitely did _not _imagine the subtle way Sherlock stiffened under her touch, and leaned away slightly, not much to arouse suspicion, but enough to send a message, _don't touch me_. Did she not see it? Or did she just choose not to?

She didn't bother to reply, as she had finally noticed John and she smiled widely at him, her pearly white teeth even whiter against the deep crimson of her lips.

"Oh, _you _must be _Jawwn,_" she drawled. "Oh, have I been dying to meet you."

And then, just like that, she bent forward and kissed him on the side of his mouth.

"You were wrong, Sherlock," she laughed. "He's _very _handsome. If you hadn't staked your claim first, I would have tried him out myself."

John's heart was beating really quite fast before he was able to register the meaning of her words. He wanted to say something but he was interrupted again.

"Stop molesting him and go away." Sherlock moved towards the gate. "John, come on. Leave her. She's annoying."

"Wait," John was growing tired of this. He held up a finger as if to say _time out_. Then he pointed at the girl. "Who are you?" and then he moved his finger towards Sherlock. "And how do you know each other?"

Irene smirked. "He hasn't told you about me?"

"Evidently not. So I would like one of you to explain. Preferably not him, because he talks too fast and rarely makes sense."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, (which he had started to find unacceptably endearing, but he did not have time for this right now.) and Irene laughed.

"Dear God, I was right. You _are _in love with each other."

John frowned at her, trying to ignore the odd flutter his heart did at those words. "What?"

"As for who I am, that's easy," she smirked, and moved next to Sherlock, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling his resisting body closer. "I'm his girlfriend, Irene." and she reached up to kiss him on the base of his neck, because he was too tall for her to reach further.

And just like that John wanted to wrench Irene away from Sherlock and do to him that very same thing.

_Oh fucking hell_, he thought immediately. _No fucking way_.

Sherlock pushed her away. "Don't listen to her, she's lying. She does it appallingly often, and she thinks she can fool you because you may be too distracted by the size of her breasts and that horrifying shade of red on her lips to realise."

John gaped at him, and he wanted to laugh. He thought he was being distracted by _Irene, _for Christ's sake, when he had been staring at the pale expanse of Sherlock's neck a few seconds ago.

"I was _not—"_

Irene patted his shoulder. "_Such _a gentleman," she drawled. "Sherlock should learn a few things from you. Or he may like that kind of thing. I'm no stranger to _recreational scolding_, as his tosser of a brother would say."

John just stared at her. _Recreational scolding? Girlfriend? Mycroft? _He was clearly the only one disoriented with the situation. Was this what his whole life with Sherlock would be? Constantly being outpaced by smarter people around him?

"I don't—"he started to say, but Irene turned away from him and addressed Sherlock.

"Where are the both of you off to? Date?"

Sherlock, looking increasingly bored with this conversation, gripped John's arm and pulled him outside onto to the road. Irene followed.

John just went along meekly.

"We are going to watch a move," Sherlock said primly.

"Oh, lovely!" Irene exclaimed, wriggling in between the both of them and linking her arms with them jovially. "Take me along with you."

"Now wait just a moment—" John had finally decided to use his voice, because no _fucking way in hell _was he going to allow this psychotic girl along with them, because this was supposed to be Sherlock's apology- they were going to watch a _movie _together, for God's sake, it was probably the first and last time that would happen, and he'd be damned if he willingly brought along a third wheel.

'No, you're boring. Go away." Sherlock detangled himself from her.

Irene pouted. "But I haven't anything to do. Please?" then she looked beseechingly a John, and her eyes reminded him of Sherlock's eyes, and he found himself saying yes.

"Okay."

Sherlock groaned in frustration, but he didn't argue.

* * *

><p>He should have argued. He should have brought the fucking roof down like he always did. Sherlock would just choose <em>any<em> inappropriate time to have a temper tantrum, he was always throwing temper tantrums, but now, when John would have wanted nothing better than for Sherlock to shout and scream and say, "no, let's not bring this one along," Sherlock had remained stubbornly quiet.

This was not a time for _sulking_.

"If you didn't want her to come, why didn't you _say _so?" John hissed at him while they were buying tickets.

Sherlock looked at him, appalled. "I thought _you _wanted her to come."

"I just _met _her, why would I want her along?"

"Because she's pretty?"

John gaped at him. "Exactly how shallow do you think I am?"

"You danced with Sarah yesterday, for no particular reason except that she's pretty. She has _no _redeeming qualities to speak of whatsoever—"

"That is _not _true."

"You know it's true. It was a deduction, and my deductions are always right."

"You are an _arrogant prick_ and the only reason I'm not punching you is because we are in public."

"No, you're not punching me because you don't want to."

"I _always _want to punch you."

Sherlock was about to say something in reply, when Irene walked up to them, said, "Boys this is hardly the place to have a domestic," she plucked the tickets out of John's hand and said, "Come along, now."

John was almost glad of her intervention, because he _actually _might have punched him.

"I don't know how you can have such violent feelings towards me when I am going to _watch a movie _with you," Sherlock said hotly, as they made their way towards the cinema. "A _movie_, John. Have you _ever _seen me watching movies, hmm? They are the most tedious, _dull _waste of _time _ever invented by man- I will tell you the potential ending of the story five minutes into it, I promise- and I am choosing to occupy my time doing _this."_

"This was your idea," he snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh but failing miserably. He knew _exactly _why he was feeling so annoyed. _Why was Irene with them?_

Sherlock looked wearily at him, and wisely chose not to reply.

He sat in between Irene and John, a long-suffering look on his face as if he were being sentenced to an execution. John would have smacked him if he didn't find it so adorable. Why did he find _everything _that prat did adorable? Clearly there was something wrong with him.

He scarcely watched the movie at all, because he was distracted by the fact that it was so bloody _dark _in the hall, and he could hear Irene whispering in Sherlock's ear—_and what was she even telling him_? And it was becoming almost impossible to sit this close to Sherlock, he was probably going to combust right on spot, but he had no idea why he felt so _fucking uncomfortable_.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned in and whispered to John, his breath tickling his ear. "Are you alright?"

John turned sharply towards him. "Am I _alright_?" he whispered furiously.

Sherlock looked appalled at his outburst. "Yes," he repeated slowly. "You seem...nervous."

"Why would I be nervous?"

"I could come up with five possibilities, taking into account your personality and the current situation, but if I tell you, you may shout at me so I'm asking you myself."

"Well if you're _so _very _clever_," John muttered viciously, "Then why don't you just _deduce _and you'll have your bloody answer, Mr-I-could-come-up-with-five-possibilities?"

"John," Sherlock said rather helplessly, but John stubbornly refused to listen to him and turned his attention back to the screen.

Sherlock made a whiny noise of disappointment and did the same. Then John was hyper aware of the fact that Irene's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and he didn't even want to sit there anymore. He could picture her perfectly without needing to turn to her, and he pictured Sherlock and Irene side by side in his head, and he just _saw _them, the two of them perfect and elegant and absolutely beautiful, and John felt stupid and out of place and just wondered _why the hell_ Sherlock had picked _him _of all people to be his 'best friend' when he was so achingly brilliant and he could have had anyone he wanted.

The lights came back in the hall when the interval started, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes like he had been sleeping all this time, and John wondered if he had nestled closer to Irene, laid his head upon hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair...

_Fuck no._

Irene smiled at him, then, a strange smile that seemed to mock him and say, _I know exactly what you're thinking of John, and I don't plan on stopping._

Sherlock yawned widely, then, and said, "I'll be back," and walked out.

John immediately turned to Irene and asked her in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. "Okay. What's your game?"

She raised both eyebrows. "My game? I don't have a game."

"You and Sherlock. What is it? Are you in love with him? Is he in love with you? What?"

She smirked. "What makes you think I would tell you?"

"if you knew Sherlock at all, then—"

"I know what he likes."

That made John stop dead and stare at her. "What?" he asked weakly, but he wasn't a moron, and the meaning behind her words was clear enough. But thinking of _Sherlock _and _Irene _in _that _way was...was...

Sherlock came back, then, and sat down, but then he seemed to sniff out the tension in the air like a bloodhound, and he looked at the both of them in turn before snapping, "_Now _what is it?"

"Nothing," Irene said smoothly, as the lights went off again. "The movie is boring. I'm leaving. Ta ever so much." And then she was gone.

And just like that, all the tension seemed to leave John and he took a deep breath of _relief_, and turned to Sherlock and said, "She's right. The movie is boring, you're clearly not enjoying it, and neither am I. Let's go."

He felt Sherlock's gaze on him, poking and prodding like he was a corpse, the questions in his eyes coiling around him tightly and almost suffocating him.

"Okay," he said, and the both of them left the hall quietly, even though John could hear almost hear the wheels turning round and round in Sherlock's head, as he tried deduce the situation and come up with answers. He didn't speak until they were inside the cab.

"John," he said, evenly, turning to him, his voice low and rumbling and maybe a little nervous.

"Sherlock," John replied.

"You're angry."

"Yes." And John felt sick with himself, because he was blaming Sherlock, and he had no right to do that, this ridiculous situation was hardly his fault, so why couldn't he listen to that logical voice inside his head?

"Why?"

"Sherlock," he said, sitting up and looking right into his bewildered eyes. "What's up with you and Irene?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Are the both of you shagging each other?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits. "Why are you asking me ridiculous questions?" his voice dripped with disgust.

John barely flinched at his tone. "Because the evidence is very suggestive."

"_What _evidence? What do _you _know about evidence?"

"I spend a lot of time with you."

"Exactly," Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Which is why you should know not to ask me stupid questions."

"You're not saying yes or no."

"I am not going to deign that with a reply." He turned to look outside the window as if he was signalling the end of the conversation.

"What's so touchy about the question?"

Sherlock turned back to look at him, his pale cheeks slightly tinged with pink. He looked tired. "It's not the question, john. It's _you_. You're being impossible. Today was not supposed to end like this. Today was supposed to be a _you _day. I had planned on making you happy so that you would forgive me for yesterday. But you have ended up disgruntled and unhappy and I disapprove of this entirely."

"You should have told Irene not to come." John felt sickened with himself again. Why was he saying things he didn't even _mean_?

"You give her unnecessary credit, John. If you give her the power to ruin a perfect afternoon, she will. You were paying far too much attention to her ministrations than required and that ended up ruining your mood. So don't blame me."

Which actually made a lot of sense, thought John. "I'm not blaming you."

"Yes, you are," Sherlock said tiredly. "And it's annoying. I don't understand why you're jealous, you have no reason to—"

"I'm not _jealous,_" John said defensively.

Sherlock' lip quirked up in a half smile. "The evidence is very suggestive."

"You arrogant prat," John muttered, but he didn't feel quite so angry anymore.

"So we're back to calling names, which means you're in a better mood."

"Prick." John felt his own lips twitch. Sherlock was right, he was giving the girl too much importance. This afternoon was supposed to be _theirs,_ and he had almost ruined it with some misplaced jealousy.

Had he said jealous? He didn't mean jealous. He meant...er...what did he mean, exactly?

"Yes, I know. Now let's go home and play cluedo."

"_No,_" John muttered. "We are _never _playing that again..."

"So _what _do you want to do? Stop thinking about Irene, it's an absolute waste of time—"

"Do you like her?"

"I find her tolerable. I _like _you. You're my best friend; she was one of those pointless distractions I had in my life before you came along. I doubt you're so stupid as to not see the difference."

His words made John's heart slow down and race all at once. It made him feel extremely warm inside, and also froze his hands and feet. "And how exactly did she _distract _you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for _fuck's sake_, John. There is nothing sexual between us. I have not shagged her, she has not shagged me. We have not shagged each other. There. Happy?"

And it did, it made him very happy, but John hadn't expected for his synapses to start firing when he heard Sherlock say words like 'sexual' or 'shagged'; it elicited a very odd feeling, and maybe even a slight stirring in his pants, which quite frankly, alarmed John. It was just...the way he... _said _it...in that fucking _voice_.

Sherlock stared at him. "John?" Damn those fucking eyes, they seemed to be searching every centimetre of his face. John could _feel _the heat on his cheeks, and fuck him if Sherlock didn't notice them too. The bloke noticed _everything_.

The only thing that came out of his mouth was, "You've never sworn before." His voice sounded shaky and breathy to his ears.

"That's because I don't. Profanity is an excuse for people who don't have a basic grasp of the English language. But back to my question. Have I settled this ridiculous situation once and for all? Can you please start thinking rationally again?"

"Er. Okay." John was too distracted by the physical reaction his body seemed to be having when Sherlock said certain words to say anything else.

"Small mercies," Sherlock muttered under his breath, looking outside the window. John took the blessed three seconds to try and get a hold on himself when Sherlock turned around to face him again, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. "Oh, and John," he leaned forward so John could see it even clearer.

"W-what?"

"You've got lipstick all over your mouth."

And then, Sherlock lifted his hand up, and his long, elegant fingers casually brushed the side of John's mouth to smudge off the lipstick.

_Wait_, John thought. _When did this happen. Why...fuck._

His fingertips seemed to move agonizingly slowly, dragging down the corner of his lip as he carefully wiped it off.

And then fingers were gone, too soon for John's taste, and the burning sensation that they had left in their wake still buzzed and arched at the corner of John's mouth. He couldn't _possibly _have...did he _just_...

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed approvingly, settling back into his seat with a satisfied sigh. "You accuse me of engaging in sexual activities with Irene when you're the one with her lipstick smudged on your mouth."

"I, ugh..." John's brain had temporarily shut down. He longed to brush his fingers over the burning skin, which felt so hot that he was almost certain it was on fire.

"No need to reply, John," the smirk stubbornly refused to leave his face. _Arrogant bastard. _"We can go home now, drink tea, and watch god-awful tv. Sound good to you?"

John wondered if he was imaging the double meaning to his words.

Half of him hoped he wasn't.

Which, quite frankly, was even more alarming than the slight straining in his trousers.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you liked that.<strong>

**I'm already working on the next chapter...so who knows, maybe you'll get a quick update! But don't get your hopes up too high.**

**Oh, and just feel free to drop a line or two on your way out! I'd love to know how you feel about my story, suggestions/ concrit/ compliments (they're the best) so please just write a few words, it would totally make my day. No matter how short, reviews are the best present I can get this Christmas!**

**Well, happy Christmas to you all! Have a lovely holiday and hope you guys get lots of presents!**

**(And the Christmas special. UGH will it air or NOT?)**

**(ps. Reviews.)**

**La'erz! **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Just a warning. I'm gonna angst up things a bit from this chapter. So, like, feels. Yeah.**

**Also, thank you for your reviews *blush* your compliments make me so happy. You guys are awesome and I appreciate your support SO much. ILY.**

**Ah, well. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>:9:<p>

Sherlock was no fan of emotion. Sentiment was ridiculous and he detested it. Simple. And he had known for the majority of his life that he would never be in a position where he would feel _so fucking much _of sentiment that it would physically hurt. He had also believed, that he would never be so happy that he couldn't breathe.

Sherlock Holmes was very rarely wrong, and being mistaken about any other situation might have reduced him to a bawling mess of childish immaturity, but in this case, he was very, _very _glad that he was wrong.

Which was why he couldn't decide if he should berate Irene Adler about what she had done, or thank her profusely for it. Incidentally, right now, he was leaning against the fence at the back of his house, dressed in his pyjamas and his dressing gown, lighting a cigarette next to her.

"Okay," he said, puffing out the smoke. "Explain."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Holmes. You're supposed to be brilliant. Go on. Deduce."

Sherlock smirked. "John said the same thing to me today," then he frowned. "Although he said it with a negative connotation, I believe. I don't really know _why_, but when I suggested what I _thought was true—_

"He became defensive," Irene finished, grinning. "What did he ask you?"

Sherlock shrugged, flicking ash off the cigarette tip. It glowed in the darkness. "He seems to have been under the notion that you and I are in some sort of sexual relationship." He rolled his eyes. "As if I would ever have sex with _you."_

"You wound me, Sherlock. But what did you tell him?" she looked far too eager. _Women_, thought Sherlock, annoyed.

"What do you think I told him? That you and I were shagging wildly seven times a night? I told him I wouldn't touch you with a six foot pole."

She looked affronted. "You did?"

"Eh," he muttered. "In a manner of speaking."

Irene groaned. "You _pisspot_," she said. "After everything I did to make him jealous—"

He turned to her sharply. "So you _were _trying to make him jealous," his eyes narrowed.

"Well, obviously. He clearly likes you, but he's almost as thick as you when it comes to romance. He just needed a push in the right direction."

Sherlock almost choked on his own cigarette. Of all the _crazy_, _ridiculous _things—and why had his pulse quickened suddenly? "He's _not—_I'm not—what _romance?!_" he spluttered incoherently. Good God, he was never _incoherent_. What was she talking about? And why did he feel so hot suddenly? It was the beginning of December, for Christ's sake...

Irene just smirked at him. "Boys," she said triumphantly, as if that provided all the answers. "Sherlock, you went and watched a _movie _with him today. You went to a sodding _party _for him, and you bloody well _solve crimes _together! Use your head and draw a conclusion based on the logic—isn't that what you do?"

"I come to _likely _conclusions," he snapped, although he couldn't help feeling the hot flush creep along his neck. "We're _friends_, for God's sake."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're blushing."

"I am _not_," but the heat on his cheeks said otherwise.

"He likes you too. Come on, you know it. You've seen the signs."

"I—" then he stopped. The _signs_...yes. Dilated pupils. Erratic pulse. He had them all. Those few moments in the cab today—he could almost _feel _John's flushed skin underneath his fingertips. A stupid move, but an enlightening one all the same. But...no. He shook his head. "John isn't...John isn't gay," he finished lamely. _Brilliant deduction_, he thought.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Ugh, you and your _labels_. You just find someone you like, Sherlock, and it can be a girl or a boy or whatever you want. It's just that simple."

Why was she making this so _difficult _for him? "That's not..true," he swallowed thickly. "Even if, even if that had even a _modicum _of truth to it...why would John be attracted to _me?_ Look at me, I'm an arsehole. Even I know that. John is...John is _nice. _He likes pretty girls who say nice things and do nice things. Not high functioning sociopaths who think _murders _are more fun than parties and who literally spend the majority of their adolescence siphoning off cocaine like fucking water." He stubbed the cigarette rather violently under his foot and ripped another one out of his pocket. "He doesn't even know I smoke, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, honey—"

"And why would _I _be attracted to him? John is my friend; I'm fond of him— that ends there. What you're talking about...it sounds dangerously close to a _relationship _and that is a degree of affection I am not capable of." _Liar_, his subconscious seemed to whisper to him.

"Sherlock," Irene snapped. "You don't know what you're saying. You think everyone else is stupid, but have you even seen _yourself_? All this 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks- that's what your brother says, isn't it? Well you can go tell him to fuck himself, because—"

"Irene—"

"No, shut up. You," she poked him in the middle of his chest rather painfully and it took him so much by surprise that his cigarette fell out of his fingers. He opened his mouth to say something but Irene was already raving. "For the first time in _years_, you've got this boy who follows you around like a puppy, and you drool after him, and you care for him more than I've seen you care for anyone. So let me tell you something. You sort out your feelings because otherwise some pretty bitch who 'says nice things and does nice things' is gonna take him, and then you're going to be wondering where on earth you went wrong."

"But I—"

"Oh, sod off," she muttered, pushing him away. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"I was wondering the same thing. Honestly, Irene, it serves no purpose," he licked his lips and his voice shook ever so slightly when he said the next words. "John and I are just friends, and I'm happy with that. I am not going to ruin the only friendship I am likely to ever have through this misconceived notion of _romance _you're so bent upon."

Irene stared at him. "Oh my god, how thick are you?"

"Not thick, practical," Sherlock corrected, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. "I'm going upstairs. Go home."

He walked away then, leaving Irene staring after him with a mixture of fury and shock.

He didn't sleep that night.

* * *

><p>John was wishing he had never gone to that sodding party <em>at all<em>.

He seemed to lose all sense when he was with pretty girls, no matter how bitchy they were. And now he was going to the _bloody _Christmas Formal with Sarah and he didn't even _want to_. Apparently she had asked him that evening and he had said yes and that was that. Jesus, sometimes he wished he was as rude as Sherlock and he could just say 'No, I can't go with you because I don't actually like you all that much,' but _no._ He had to have this ridiculous sense of morality that prompted him to say something like, "Oh, really? Haha. That's fantastic. Sounds fabulous._" _He didn't even use the word 'fabulous', for God's sake.

"Janine wants to know if Sherlock's going with anyone," Sarah mentioned, while they were leaning against the wall outside school waiting for class to start. _Where the hell was Sherlock? Of all the days he chose to be late...now he had to fend off romantic proposals for him. Janine. Please. She was a vapid airhead and Sherlock would get bored with her in thirty seconds._

Although he _had _danced with her that night.

"John?" Sarah prompted.

"Huh? What?" John shook himself out of the irrational flare of envy. _This had to stop_.

"Janine. Do you think Sherlock would go with her? Oh, and there's that other girl, Kitty, I think- and Louise-"

John burst out laughing. "Sherlock? Go to the _Christmas Formals_? You're not serious are you?" _How many of them wanted to go with him?!_

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Trust me, I _told _her it was a lost cause. She seemed bent upon it. I would have told her he fancies blokes, but I haven't seen him with _anyone_. I mean, half the school thinks he fancies _you_, or the other way around, but I've—"

John almost choked on his own saliva. He laughed, a nervous, hysterical laugh that sounded slightly manic to his own ears. "He doesn't fancy _me," _he all but shrieked. "We're...he's—it's completely platonic, I assure you." But there was snide voice at the back of his head which seemed to whisper into his ear _is it_?

Sarah's eyes widened slightly at his over reactive response. "I know that," she said, rather suspiciously. "I told them that you're perfectly straight. Aren't you?"

"I'm straight," John clarified quickly. "Perfectly straight. Very straight. Straighter than a pole," _What the fuck was wrong with him? _He would have probably gone on to list all the ways in which he was 'perfectly straight, very straight, straighter than a pole," had he not been saved by the appearance of a slender, dark haired figure he knew only too well.

Sherlock seemed to have been in the process of entering the classroom without him, (he only hoped he had just blatantly ignored him because he disliked Sarah) but John grabbed his arm before he could go in. Sherlock looked down at him, at the fingers around his bicep, and then at Sarah, his gaze calculating as usual.

"Hello, John," he said slowly, his gaze softening when he looked at him. John unclasped his grip and grinned at him. Sarah had visibly stiffened beside him.

"I'll see you later, John," she said coolly. "You could help me pick out my dress for the dance," she seemed to have added that last bit to Sherlock rather than John, and then she sauntered off.

Sherlock watched her as she went, his eyes narrowed and his lips a hard line. "Charming," he muttered, walking in with John.

John rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. She's no picnic," they took a seat in the middle of the classroom, (it was a compromise; Sherlock wouldn't come for class unless they could sit at the back, and John refused to accompany him to the woods for lunch unless he could sit in the front) "But I seem to have agreed to go with her to some shite Christmas dance that's happening at school." He ruffled his hair frustratedly.

"Ah yes, the Christmas Formal," Sherlock nodded, his tone somehow dropping about a dozen degrees. Or maybe he was just imaging it. Obviously imagining it. "I see." He adopted his usual pose of fingers-beneath-chin, the I'm-only-pretending-to-listen-but-I've-got-more-interesting-things-in-mind-at-the-moment expression on his face. Although John couldn't recall when Sherlock had used that expression on _him_. Surely not because of a silly Christmas dance?

"It's a ridiculous thing anyway," John suddenly found himself explaining. "I'll just come for an hour, move around a bit with her, drink the punch and then go. "

"John," Sherlock drawled, elongating his name like only he did, "You really don't need to justify yourself to me," he ruffled his hair with both his hands the way he did when he was frustrated or pissed off—making it even more tangled and messy. (it only seemed to improve his looks, though), "Sarah's a...nice girl. You should go with her."

John looked sceptically at him. "You don't _like _Sarah."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over the people slowly trickling into class, taking seats and scraping back chairs. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up his pale neck as he did so. He cleared his throat and answered after a pause, "True. But _you _do."

"I don't...I don't like _like _her," John said, sounding and feeling stupid. What was he, five? But Sherlock was acting so...strange. _Oh my god_, he suddenly thought. _Is this about the cab ride? Shit, I _knew _I was acting like an idiot._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Grammatically and figuratively incorrect," he said contemptuously. "Either you like a person or you don't. You do, it's perfectly fine for you to admit it." He wasn't even _looking _at him, god damn it. And there were _other _things John should have been admitting, but he pushed all that to the back of his mind.

"Sherlock," John said, unable to say anything else.

He looked at him, then, his gaze intense, and John couldn't have named the colour of his eyes if someone had held a knife to his throat. "What?" he asked.

_I'm having all this ridiculous and weird feelings that I've never felt before and I can't make sense of it and my thoughts are a mess and I wish I could tell you about it but I don't want you to get freaked out or anything, for Heaven's sake, can't you see it yourself_?

"Nothing," he muttered.

Sherlock held his gaze for a few more seconds, and John had the uncanny feeling that Sherlock knew _exactly _what was going on in his mind, but then he turned away with a quiet, "Okay," and the feeling was over. He felt slightly disappointed, but then, he supposed it was for the best.

Anderson and Sally came and sat across from them, Sally greeting with a snide, "Hey, freak." Some of the other kids snickered to themselves, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes and said, "Fuck off, Sally," in a rather tired tone, and it worried John. Jesus, there were so many things he wanted to _say_, and no way of saying them.

Unfortunately, he had to put those unsettling thought to the back of his mind because Mr. Preston had just entered class, flourishing a sheaf of papers with a manic grin on his face. "Surprise test!" he declared jovially, to a chorus of groans. He passed out the papers, and John had to concentrate because he certainly wasn't a genius like Sherlock.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered furiously to himself whilst he was scribbling god-knows-what on the answer sheet.

"It's just a stupid test," Sherlock said disdainfully. His own paper was a mess of scrawls and figures, but he evidently knew what he was doing. "Just do what you can and I'll explain it to you later."

"You will?" John felt a sense of relief. He didn't even know how worried he had been about Sherlock's perceptible change of manner until he had made that offer of help.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock answered smoothly, frowning at him, his pale eyes curious under his fringe of dark hair. "Why wouldn't I?"

John stared at him for a few moments, wondering why on earth something so simple meant so much to him suddenly. "Thanks," he whispered back.

Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever."

* * *

><p>"You attended every class this morning," John said, as they were ambling towards the woods.<p>

Sherlock's lip twitched. "Janine seems to have made it her mission to pursue me wherever I go. If I stayed outside class, she would have undoubtedly found me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so it has nothing to do with me. You know, not because _I'm the one who forces you to take classes_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Narcissm," he rumbled. "So unattractive."

John could finally feel himself relaxing. That strange sense of worry had been gnawing at him since he had seen Sherlock this morning, well, in fact ever since that weird moment in the cab—gradually faded as he and Sherlock lapsed into their usual banter. It was fine. It was all fine.

At least he hoped it was. Because he _really _didn't want to botch this friendship up with some misplaced apprehension.

Sherlock leaned his head against the tree that he was so fond of, biting gingerly into the cheese-and-ham sandwich that John had forced upon him like he was eating dirt. Sherlock didn't have an absence of an appetite, exactly; he simply _forgot _to eat sometimes. If it wasn't for John, Sherlock would have never had lunch at school. He knew Mycroft forced him to eat when he was at home, but usually he was working so Sherlock would have nothing but tea and toast throughout the whole day.

"I don't like ham," he said sullenly.

"You don't like _anything_," John countered.

"I like mince pies."

"Mince pies are _unhealthy_. I'm not going to allow you to have _sweets_ for lunch."

"You're so _boring,"_ he muttered, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth and dusting his hands on his (rather form fitting) school jumper.

"Oh _god forbid _I try to force nutrition on you," John scooted a bit closer to Sherlock involuntarily. He didn't notice he had done it until their shoulders were almost touching. It should have made him uncomfortable, judging from the unsettling direction his thoughts had been progressing in since yesterday, but it didn't, and he didn't want to move. The warm presence of Sherlock by his side was comforting.

"Sherlock," John said suddenly.

"Hmm?" he asked. His head was leaning against the tree, and his eyes were closed, the long lashes fanning against his cheekbones.

"Are you okay?"

That was when his head snapped up, and he looked at John, his pale gaze confused. "Am I okay? Why are you asking?" He frowned.

John sighed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have asked him. He shrugged. "It's just—I don't know. Just thought you were acing sort of odd like this morning."

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "_I _was acting odd?"

John pursed his lips, wondering if he should start this conversation now. He ploughed on. "I don't know. I don't think I should tell you...but it's been sort of bothering me."

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice, his eyes searching every corner of his face, as if convinced he would find an answer there. "What is it?"

"I don't know," John said again helplessly. "You've been all distant this morning."

'Distant?" Sherlock echoed, surprised. "Am I being distant now?"

"No," John answered, honestly.

"Then why are you worried?"

"I'm not _worried."_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows sceptically. "Well, not _worried," _John defended. "It's just...never mind."

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, his gaze searching his face. Then he looked away, sighing, running a frustrated hand through his shaggy curls. "John," he said, shifting slightly uncomfortably and licking his lips. "I thought I should ask you something. I don't really know the protocol for these kind of things, but—" he waved a hand about vaguely. "Irene showed me some perspective, something I never really considered before..."

John felt a funny feeling settle in the pit of his stomach. "Sherlock—" he started to say, but then they were suddenly interrupted by a female voice calling his name.

Sarah Sawyer tumbled into the woods, looking flushed and very pleased with herself. She grinned widely when set her eyes on John. "Oh, here you are. I've been looking all over for you."

John had to blink a few times before he was able to register that she was actually there. "Oh, really?" he asked stupidly.

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed to slits as he took in the sight before him, then he seemed to retreat back into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking everywhere but at John and Sarah. John had learned to recognize his body language easily; it was what he did whenever he wanted to distance or remove himself from a certain social situation. John felt entirely helpless and he didn't know what to _do. _Sherlock had been about to say something important, something that had taken him a lot of effort to- and now he _knew _he wouldn't say it again. He looked at the hardness in his eyes, and the clenched jaw- and he felt absolutely sick.

"John?" Sarah asked.

John ripped his gaze from Sherlock's expressionless face and looked at Sarah. "Yeah?"

She bit her lips, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

"Oh, ugh," he looked at Sherlock to see if it was okay, but he was stubbornly refusing to look at him. He turned back to Sarah, getting up and dusting his trousers. "Yeah, sure. Sherlock, see you in a bit?" he asked the last part rather uncertainly.

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible nod which he realised was all he was likely to get, so he romped on after Sarah. She had taken his arm, but he wasn't overly excited about the physical contact. His shoulder still felt slightly warm where it had brushed against Sherlock's.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't really into self-harm, he saw it as a blatant attention-seeking tool, but he could have hit himself right now. How idiotic <em>was <em>he? His genius was a farce. If it hadn't been for Sarah, Sherlock could have ruined the only friendship he had in a few minutes.

Oh, fuck, _Sarah._ He groaned frustratedly, flopping against the grass. He didn't know if he was capable of disliking someone so much. Previously, Mycroft had occupied that honourable position, but Sarah was _far _more intolerable that his cake-eating brother.

God, these...these _feelings _were going to drive him mad. He needed to talk to someone, ask if this was _normal._ But then again, he thought rather bitterly, when had anyone considered him 'normal'?

_John does._ _John doesn't think you're a freak_.

Which was one of the things, on the ever-growing list in that sun-washed room of Sherlock's mind palace, that made him so remarkable, and too valuable to lose. Sherlock would just need to get a grip on himself. This was a temporary thing. And the feelings wouldn't have surfaced if Irene hadn't stirred them up.

_Wouldn't they_?

Sherlock couldn't stay here anymore. He was going to drive himself crazy thinking things he wouldn't ever have thought of if John Watson hadn't been shoved into his perfectly well organised life.

Because that's what it had been, hadn't it, he thought, as he walked towards school. Organised. Planned. But boring. Now no day was the same as the last. Even exceedingly normal, every-day things like _eating _or_ watching telly _were amazing and wonderful if he did them with John.

He wondered where the hell Sarah had dragged John off to. Probably to snog him senseless somewhere, he thought snidely.

_What's up with all the jealousy? It not like YOU want to snog John._

Sherlock agreed. Definitely not. That was ridiculous.

* * *

><p>John really wasn't in the mood to snog Sarah.<p>

She seemed to have other plans. The fact that she had called him away from Sherlock for a _sodding snog _in a _supply closet _annoyed him to no end. Still, she had him pressed up against the door and her tongue was halfway down his throat, so he wasn't in a position to let her know his objections. But when her hands reached for the buttons in his trousers, he instinctively grabbed her wrist.

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to?"

"Erm, no," he answered, letting go of her hand, and fixing his tie. "Not in a supply closet, at least." He didn't want to 'do it' anywhere, in fact, but he didn't want to sound rude. He pushed her gently back. "Maybe later?" he checked his watch. "We have class in five minutes."

Both her eyebrows went up. "I thought we'd miss class," she snapped. "I mean—aren't you—um-you know..."

"Aren't I?"

"You know. Turned on?" She bit her lip. John remembered when he used to find that alluring. Now he just wanted to get out of this suffocating closet and the scent of Sarah's perfume.

"Uh," he didn't exactly know how to respond to that. Unfortunately, his cock had been rather unresponsive the whole time she had her body pressed up against his, but that was probably because he was thinking about Sherlock. Not in _that _way, obviously, he hadn't been wondering what Sherlock's lips would feel like against his own...no. No way. Just worried about him. "I...am," he finished lamely, knowing very well how unconvincing that sounded. "But..er...I don't want to get off next to tubes of detergent." He laughed nervously, but Sarah didn't look amused.

"Fine," she muttered. "Let's go," she opened the door and even though she had seemingly implied that they would go together, she left without another word.

He knew that the decent thing to do was to go after her and apologise or whatever this social situation demanded (god, now he was even starting to _think _like him) but he needed to find Sherlock.

It was difficult to find him, he wasn't in any of his usual spots, but when he was walking back through the rather dark corridor that run from the back end of the building, the familiar mop of dark hair caught his eye.

"Sherlock!" he called.

He jogged up to him, and Sherlock looked down at him with his usual deadpan expression. "Hi," John said, rather breathlessly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his entire body, and John was suddenly mortified, because this was Sherlock Sodding Holmes and he probably knew that Sarah had been trying to snog him senseless in a supply closet five minutes ago.

As expected, a dark eyebrow went up, and a smirk played on the corner of his mouth. "John," he rumbled. Then the bastard dropped his bag, leaned against the wall behind him and crossed his arms over his chest. "How was the snogging?"

"I ...wasn't snogging," John stammered, which was probably the lamest lie he had said in all of history. Sherlock cocked his head to one side, the smirk growing wider.

"You know me, John. This won't work."

John sighed, glaring at him. "Go on. Dazzle me. How did you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's not insult my intelligence by asking me to state the obvious."

John raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like you're telling me you don't know."

"Oh _please_," Sherlock scoffed. "Look at yourself, John. Your collars are all ruffled up at the edges, as if someone's grabbed you to get closer," then, because John was already standing close to him, Sherlock simply leaned forward and casually fixed John's collar like it was of no consequence. _Fuck_.

"There's the loosened tie you obviously tried to redo hurriedly but didn't manage that quite so well..." Sherlock was standing now, right in front of him, his hands on his tie as he tightened it, pulling up the knot. His eyes were on the base of his neck as he said, "Then there's the two top buttons of your shirt. Open," he fastened the buttons, the cold touch of his fingertips on his breastbone sending shivers down his spine. John seemed unable to move or to say anything. "Then, obviously, one would only have to look at your lips to clinch the deduction." His gaze fell to his mouth, his lips parting slightly. He was so close now that John could literally feel the heat radiating from his skin. His mouth was just a few inches away from his own, Sherlock would just have to lean forward slightly to close the gap, and John could hear the blood rushing in his ears at the thought.

"My lips?" John asked, weakly

Tearing his gaze away, he looked right into John's eyes then, smirking. "Swollen, John."

John gave a slightly manic, hysterical laugh. "Brilliant, obviously."

Sherlock moved away from him in one fluid movement, picking up his bag, singing it over his shoulder. "I am, aren't I?" he started walking away. "Come along, John. I believe we have some tedious class to attend."

John gaped at him, sauntering away like the last minute hadn't even happened. His heart race had increased ten times, and his skin felt cold at the sudden loss of stifling proximity. He followed Sherlock down the hall.

_Something is wrong with me_.

* * *

><p><em>We're friends, we're just friends, Sherlock and are just friends. This is stupid and ridiculous and it will never happen again.<em>

Chemistry Practical was an exercise in self-control as John sat next to Sherlock in the third bench, having already broken his third test tube.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, his dropper in his slender fingers. "Are you alright?"

"What?" John wiped his hands on a towel, brushing the broken pieces into the rubbish bin. "I'm fine."

"Something to do with Sarah?" Sherlock asked, in that vaguely bored tone of his.

"Maybe," he muttered. "Really don't want to go for that dance."

Sherlock bit back a laugh. "Then don't _go._ It's going to be dreadful. You'll hate it."

"I know," he replied wearily. "But I promised Sarah."

Sherlock's snorted inelegantly. "Yes, there's always that."

"I don't even know _how _to dance," John suddenly burst, exasperated.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, his multi-coloured eyes wide, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. He looked hesitant.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. He put down his beaker. "I could help you."

"What?"

"I could teach you to dance. Just basic stuff, it's not that—"

"_You _will teach me how to _dance? _You know how to _dance?" _John couldn't believe his ears.

Sherlock looked affronted and really quite adorable, with the undeniable embarrassed blush creeping along his pale skin. "Yes," he scoffed. "I am a _fantastic _dancer, I will have you know. My parents made me take lessons when I was a child." He sniffed.

John leaned forward, grinning. "You'll teach me how to dance?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Okay. You're going to teach me how to dance." He had to bite back a laugh.

"You're making fun of me," Sherlock complained.

"No, no," John reassured him, although the idea of teasing Sherlock about it was tempting. But he hated making him feel uncomfortable, and if he liked to dance, there was nothing wrong with it. Quite frankly, John found it...well he found it rather sexy. "This is great. I want you to."

Sherlock smiled shyly. "Good."

* * *

><p>John watched Sherlock lazily from the slouchy beanbag in front of the bookshelf as he pulled his school jumper over his head, flinging it unceremoniously into the corner of his room. It made his hair stand up every which way, and Sherlock even tied to fix it by running his hands through it rather aimlessly. John tried not to stare too much, at the flexing muscles of his back under his school shirt, at the long fingers dragging themselves through the tousled curls- but it was proving rather difficult.<p>

_What was he doing here, anyway? He couldn't stand straight after Sherlock fixed his tie and now he was agreeing to him teaching him how to dance? How ridiculous was that?_

"So?" John asked, rather uncertainly, loosening his tie.

Sherlock ignored him as he rummaged in his desk drawer, brow furrowed in concentration before he pulled out an i-pod that looked like it had been stuck there for ages. Sherlock had to brush some dust off of it.

"Does that even work?" John asked.

Sherlock cast a withering look in his direction. "Of course it works," he muttered, setting up the speakers. "I wouldn't have offered you dance lessons if I was incapable of providing music."

"So that's what these are? Dance lessons?" John smiled at the thought.

"Aren't they?" Sherlock asked vaguely, scrolling through the music.

"I guess."

He finally tapped his finger on the screen, and a violin piece began to fill the room.

"Get up," he ordered.

John didn't even think twice about doing that, and walked up to Sherlock, who looked very pleased with himself.

"Okay," he said, looking at John with a calculating look in his eye. "We'll start with a waltz. We'll see how it goes from there."

"A waltz?" John repeated.

"You heard me," Sherlock grinned. Then he moved closer to John, and grasped his hand. His skin was slightly warm, and John's head spun at the sudden contact. He swallowed thickly. When Sherlock placed his hand on John's hip, it took all of his willpower not to crumple to a heap on the floor. _Get a grip on yourself, Watson_.

Sherlock leaned down towards him, speaking into his ear, "Put your hand on my shoulder." His voice seemed to have dropped a few octaves.

John obeyed, reaching up and putting a hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder. He was a bit too tall, though, and it was a bit of a stretch. Sherlock noticed, and grinned devilishly.

"We seem to have a problem," he said, smirking. "Should we switch?" His warm breath tickled his ear.

John didn't quite know how to answer that. Any position was fine with him, as long as Sherlock's hands were on him somewhere. _Shit. That sounds so dirty. _"Seems okay," he answered in a small voice.

"Very well," he said, interlacing his long fingers with John's. His touch on john's hip bone was sending waves of heat right through his body, and it seemed like a good idea to take off his jumper, but John didn't want to move at the moment.

"Follow my lead," Sherlock said, his voice low. John looked up at him, and his pale-gaze seemed to bore right through him. Was he imagining those dilated pupils? _Obviously_.

Sherlock gripped John tightly, encircling his arm around his waist and pulling him slightly closer. John's hands felt clammy as Sherlock spun them around smoothly, and he felt all the breath rush out of his body in one great _whoosh_.

"What's playing?" he asked, in a shaky voice, as Sherlock continued to fox-trot them around the room. _Anything. Distract yourself._

"Tchaikovsky," Sherlock literally purred in his ear. "I'm rather partial to Tchaikovsky."

John laughed nervously, and then stepped on Sherlock's foot inelegantly. He flushed. "Shit, sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright," Sherlock pulled away slightly. "Just follow me, Like this- 1,2,3,...1,2,3..." John concentrated on his feet, because it was far more easier than concentrating on Sherlock's breath in his ear and his hands on his body and the fact that _they were dancing the waltz, for fuck's sake._

It was easy, simple. It would have been easier if Sherlock didn't smell so good.

Then Sherlock began to talk in that fucking _voice _of his, and it became even harder.

"The Waltz emerged in the 16th century, originating in Austria and Southern Germany," Sherlock rumbled in his ear. John felt goosebumps erupt on every inch of his skin. "When people started doing it in England sometime around 1816, the very fact that the man's arm was around the lady's waist—" he drummed his fingers on the small of John's back for emphasis, "made it rather scandalous. It wasn't a traditional couple's dance."

"How do you know all that?" John asked, gripping Sherlock's shoulder blade rather tightly because he felt like he would fall if his grip slackened.

Sherlock chuckled. It was the most adorable and sexy thing he had ever heard. "I know things, John."

"Tell me more."

They completed one round, and Sherlock spun them around easily. "There were earlier forms of the Waltz," Sherlock complied. "From the 16th century itself. Montaigne was a French philosopher who wrote about a similar dance, one where the dancers were so close that their faces actually touched," Sherlock's lips were almost on his skin now, and John felt his lips lightly brush against his temple. A hot flush began to creep up along his neck.

"Shady," he joked weakly.

Sherlock smirked. "Quite an understatement." He bent forward again, switching their positions to a different rhythm. John barely registered the music, as beautiful as it was. All he was aware of was the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his waist, and his rumbling words in his ear, his voice all posh and velvety with its public school accent. "_Geschiche des Frauleins von Sternheim, Sophie Von La Roche_," he informed John.

"Book? French?" John swallowed. Sherlock speaking a foreign language, any foreign language, was doing things him. Everything that he said sounded absolutely _filthy_.

"German," Sherlock rumbled. "'_But when he put his arm around her, pressed her to his breast, cavorted with her in the shameless, indecent whirling dance of the Germans, and engaged in a familiarity that broke all the bounds of good breeding—then my silent misery turned into burning rage_." John felt an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers.

_Shit. Shit. Get it under control. Think unsexy things. Unsexy thoughts. Don't think about his lips against your ear or his hand on your waist, don't—bloody hell, Sherlock._

"John?" Sherlock asked, his tone laced with slightly amused concern. "Are you okay?"

"I-ugh—" Was he okay? Fuck no. He was quite possibly getting an erection because he was dancing with his best friend and his cock certainly found that arousing and while that was all fine_ HE WAS NOT GAY_.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow questioningly, a slightly mocking tilt to his lips. _Of all the obnoxious arseholes in the universe-_

"You?" he prompted. John registered that they had stopped moving.

"I, um—" he disentangled himself from Sherlock, who certainly didn't expect it, and stumbled slightly.

"John?" he asked, nervously, as John picked up his bag and ran a hand through his hair to tidy it.

John turned to him, sparing a glance as Sherlock's bemused and rather worried expression. "What is it?" he asked, stepping closer. John instinctively took a step back. Sherlock noticed it, and blushed a bit, stepping back.

"John, what—"

" I need to go," John said quickly. _I need to get the fuck out of here_.

"But—" Sherlock looked quite frightened now.

"Sherlock, don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow," he kept his eyes on his face, because he _definitely_ didn't need Sherlock risking a glance anywhere below his waistline and coming to his own deductions.

He frowned at him, his greyish-blue eyes clouded with thoughts. "Okay," he finally said.

John rushed out of there without a backward glance.

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned his head against the chair in the classroom, sighing frustradedly, wondering why John was so late. John was never late. But then, he shouldn't be surprised.<p>

Of all the stupid, ridiculous things Sherlock was capable of, this was probably the most stupid and ridiculous. Now he had made John uncomfortable, and John was probably doing stupid things like questioning his sexuality and wondering if Sherlock would try to molest him again. He wasn't _trying _to, he never had been- although the feeling of John's body against his own and his hands in his hadn't been..unpleasant. Ugh, who was he kidding? It was bloody arousing, and if he couldn't admit it to himself, he couldn't admit it to anyone.

Sherlock had never felt sexually attracted to anyone, and he didn't know if he was now. He never really _noticed _people that way, but you couldn't _ignore _John's physicality. Because..because John was...John was _gorgeous,_ there was no other way to put it, and for a boy who rarely found anyone attractive, this was definitely not something he was just imaging. But if it was John, then..that was it. Their friendship was over. Unless he was able to prevent himself from pawing at John like an animal. Which shouldn't be too difficult. He needed to keep John. The very thought of not being with John filled him with a clawing, frightful panic. He would do _anything _to keep him, and if that meant keeping the undeniable physical attraction he had to him hidden, so be it. He would also need to resist the temptation to shove him against the nearest wall and snog him senseless. Because he was _definitely _having those desires. It was surprising, and frightening, because these feelings were new and Sherlock did _not _know how to handle them, especially when the object of these desires was his best friend. Who was not gay. Also, it was an unbelievable thing that he was _friends _with Sherlock, so it was best to not push his luck.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when someone tumbled into the chair next to him. He lifted up his head, staring at the boy, ready to tell him off because that was _John's _chair and how dare he have the audacity to sit where _John _sat.

He was skinny, frailly built, with pale skin, almost as pale as his own. His dark hair was slicked back from his high forehead, and as he sat there, his pale fingers drummed lazily against the wooden surface of the desk. Sherlock frowned.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked. _What I actually mean is get the fuck off John's chair he'll be here any moment_.

The boy turned to him then, his intense, brown gaze digging into Sherlock's. He smiled at Sherlock- a cold, polite smile that sent a shiver down his spine.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I asked—"

The boy grinned. "I know what you asked," he said, his voice low and deep. He took Sherlock's hand without invitation, and shook it. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's skin.

"Jim Moriarty," the boy said. "Hi."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: SO I was a bit nervous about the dance scene because I had to shamelessly read through the wiki page before I was sure of what I was writing. So if you see any inaccuracies, please feel free to PM me and berate me about my lack of professionalism. I will correct any mistakes you point out.**

**Also, yes, I've introduced *ahem ahem* a new character, and consequently the fic will get darker; so take this as a warning. I also suggest you read the recently added TW in chapter one. **

**On a lighter note, REVIEWS, people! Reviews are love! Keep' em rollin' and I'll keep the chapters coming.**

**A very happy new year to all of you, I hope 2015 is good to you guys because you deserve it. :) **

**PS. PLEASE REVIEW. and i will love you foreva.**

**Also, I've just created a tumblr acc, so feel free to follow me on sherlocksmagicscrewdriver, for more fanfic, fanart and (mostly) naked pictures of Benedict. ;-)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Warnings: Welcome to Angst Town.**

**Ps: Don't hate me by the end of the chapter. *puppy dog eyes***

* * *

><p>:10:<p>

There was something about him.

Something about him that just seemed off, something that Sherlock couldn't deduce, and it was driving him crazy. Every instinct of his told him to move as far away as he possibly could from the boy, and yet he found himself sitting there, subject to his seemingly innocent casual brushes of skin on skin. Every time their eyes locked, Sherlock felt a sick feeling in the hollow of his stomach, and a shudder of something he couldn't quite place his finger on, run down his spine, and it was a nauseating combination. The pretty Irish lilt, the soft brown eyes, and the mocking tilt to his lips; something, something _something_. But _what_?

John hadn't come yet. The first class was almost over, and John was nowhere. It had started out as a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, but twenty five minutes into class it was almost a full blown panic because he _needed _John.

"You seem nervous," Jim quipped, reaching across the desk to take a pencil from his side. His arm brushed across Sherlock's.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Do I? What a brilliant deduction."

"Was it?"

"No." Sherlock twirled the pencil between his lips. He was only half listening to the teacher speak, it was some rubbish twaddle about 16th century poetry, and classes only seemed slightly stimulating when John was with him. But now he had to face forty minutes of this insanity with this...this...whoever he was.

Jim smiled lazily at him. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Disliking you would require time and effort on my part, don't flatter yourself. I really don't care about you."

Jim chuckled under his breath. "So the rumours are true," he stretched languidly back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles.

_Tedious_. "Oh, please, _do _enlighten me on the _vastly _interesting things you've heard about me." Sherlock took a long suffering sigh, keeping his eyes trained on the blackboard. He didn't know why he felt so uncomfortable with this boy...it was just...he just made his skin _crawl_, for some insane reason.

"Oh, not much," he replied airily. "I've been informed you're the institution's resident psychopath."

Sherlock's lips tilted upwards in the mockery of a smile. _Obvious. Predictable. Dull_.

"The medically approved term is _high functioning sociopath_. Do your research."

"Mmm," Jim made an approving rumble at the back of his throat. "Research on you. How enticing. Do you think I'd find anything about you on the net?"

"I'm sure you'd be the first to know."

"_Sociopath_. How very apt. But _psychopath, _on the other hand...it's almost...endearing." He turned towards Sherlock, eyes meeting his own, and his gaze sent a fizzle of something unknowing down his spine.

"How very interesting."

"You're very dismissive of me, Sherlock. Not interesting enough?"

"Just easy to read. I know everything I should."

"Which is?" he prompted. "I've heard of this...thing that you do."

"You've transferred here from a boarding school. Your parents are divorced, you live with your father. Father has a high pressure job, I'm assuming something in the government. He's usually not around. You were sent away from home for a reason; you wouldn't be coming back home to live with your father, for obvious reasons, so you're living with some other family member. You've been abroad recently, somewhere fancy, maybe Paris. Possibly with your mother. Possibly alone. Maybe it was an apology for keeping you locked up in boarding school. Also, you're probably gay."

Jim whistled.

"Please don't feel any need to tell me that was wonderful or amazing, John's expressed that thought in every variant available to the English language."

"John?"

And right on cue, someone cleared their throat from the door. Sherlock suddenly felt all the tension leave his body so completely that he almost slumped in his chair from the relief of it.

_John_.

"Come in, Mr. Watson. Although I don't see the point in you attending class _now._" The class giggled.

John flushed, an attractive shade of pink, that made Sherlock wish that _he _could make him blush in that way. John nodded, stepping inside, immediately locking eyes with Sherlock, and he could literally feel the rest of the class melt away. His lips turned up in an automatic smile, genuinely _happy_. John grinned back, until his eyes fell on Jim, and the smile melted, brow furrowing. He raised a questioning glance to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response.

Just then the bell rang, and their attentions were arrested for a moment, while Ms. Blunt packed up her things, and the students filed out. John made his way towards Sherlock then, the questioning look still on his face. Jim still lounged in his chair, watching the proceedings with almost gleeful interest. Sherlock stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, as John stopped at the desk. Sherlock quickly flicked his eyes down John's body, trying not to look too eager or lecherous, taking in the tousled, wet hair and the loosened tie, the school jumper that was carelessly tied around his rugby toned hips. He glanced towards Sherlock once, and then looked at Jim, who smiled back up at him politely.

"Uh," John mumbled. "I...don't think we've met. Are you new here?"

Jim stood up, shoving his books into his bags. "I assume you're John," he replied smoothly.

Sherlock felt sick. He didn't like the way Jim looked at John, he didn't like that John was standing so close to someone who Sherlock's mind had already labelled 'dangerous'. He wanted to get him out of here, away from this boy.

John raised his eyebrows, flicking his eyes back from Sherlock to Jim. "Yeah," he said uncertainly. "Sherlock told you?"

"Ah, yes. I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty." He smirked at John. "Charmed." Then he winked at Sherlock. "See you around, dear." Then he slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked away.

John stared after him, his face contorted with disgust and confusion. _Good_.

"_D__ear_?" He repeated incredulously. "Who _is _he?"

Sherlock shrugged. "New student, I suppose." He swallowed thickly, looking down at John, suddenly feeling awkward, because the last time they had seen each other, John had literally fled from him. John seemed to realise that too, and he instinctively stepped back from Sherlock, as if to create some distance between them. That hurt a little, but still, it was better than running away. Besides, perhaps physical distance was a good thing. It would keep him from pouncing on John.

John looked away from him, biting his lip. Sherlock tried to not stare. "I don't like the look of him," John muttered, starting to walk out of class. Sherlock followed suit.

* * *

><p>John did not need this.<p>

It was difficult enough to not look at Sherlock, in all his messy haired, silver eyed, form-fitting jumper glory, and not recall the wank he'd had yesterday evening as soon as he came home to the privacy of his own room. To not remember his hands on his waist and his breath in his ear, and the fact that thinking about it would probably make him hard again. He needed to get it under control, because he could only imagine the look of horror on Sherlock's face if John were to announce to him that he would quite like to shag him into next week.

Shagging Sherlock. Appealing thought.

_Don't think about it. Unless you want to get hard in the middle of a physics lesson_. Sherlock, as usual, wasn't in class, which was honestly a relief, because Sherlock would be able to deduce his erection in seconds.

And now John was driving himself crazy wondering if Sherlock was with Jim. Because he hadn't imagined it, had he? That cackle of electricity between the both of them, the atmosphere around them that was so heavy and charged with _something_ that John couldn't quite place- that hungry, manic gleam in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock... and the curiosity in Sherlock's. Only a fool would have ignored it. He felt like puking, felt sickened at the thought of Sherlock being anywhere near that creep. And that of Sherlock being even remotely interested in him...ugh. No. Don't think like that. Sherlock couldn't _possibly._

Sarah sat next to him, tapping her foot impatiently while Mr. Tenant lectured them on...pulleys. Yes, pulleys. Or levers. Long, cylindrical things.

"Guess what Jeanette asked me," Sarah whispered into his ear during class.

John turned to her, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She smirked at him. "She asked if we were dating."

John's eyes widened with horror, but he toned down the expression to one of polite interest. "Oh?" he asked stupidly.

"Yeah. I told we were. We are, aren't we?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. John felt slightly sick. How on earth could he have found her attractive? He didn't know how to reply, but on one hand...if Sherlock knew they were dating, maybe he wouldn't be suspicious of John's feelings. It would slow down the deductions a bit.

"Oh, er...yeah. Sure."

* * *

><p>The school library may have been detestable, but there were certain advantages. It was quiet, and Sherlock needed silence to calm himself down. He was at the very back of the library, shielded from view by the large bookshelves, running his fingers down the volumes tightly wedged in.<p>

_Boring, boring...boring..._

"You don't seem like the popular literature sort of bloke to me," a familiar drawl sounded. Sherlock turned around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the pale, dark haired boy standing at the other end, leaning against the opposite bookshelf. His lips quirked up in a smirk when Sherlock's gaze fell on him.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said in a low voice, taking in the neatly tucked shirt, the tightly knotted tie, the obsessively combed hair; and the gleam of malice in those eyes. Sherlock repressed a shudder, slightly unsure of what caused it. Jim walked up to him, standing a bit too close, so close that Sherlock could smell his cologne from six inches up. He plucked the book out of Sherlock's fingers, turning it over in his hand, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

"_Organic Chemistry,´_ he mused. Then, reached up and put it back in the shelf, unnecessarily brushing against Sherlock as he did so. Sherlock stiffened at the slight physical contact. "Boring. Too plain for that great big head of yours, don't you think?" He leaned his shoulder against the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest, raising a thin eyebrow and looking up at Sherlock from under his long eyelashes. He seemed to be made of porcelain, delicate, fragile, as if it were physical proof that all of Sherlock's deductions regarding him were wrong. He couldn't _possibly _be dangerous.

_You don't need bulk to hurt_.

"Are you here to engage in small talk?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow back at him.

"I'm making friends," he cocked his head to one side. "Aren't I?"

"You're wasting your time," Sherlock inspected his fingernails carelessly. "I don't have friends."

Jim whistled. "What _lies_, Sherlock. Do you kiss John with that mouth?"

Sherlock bristled immediately. He kept his face impassive, guarded. Something told him that Jim wouldn't be easy to fool. And the less he knew about him and John, the better. Even hearing him say his name made him want to punch him across that delicate jaw.

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

Both his eyebrows went up, a condescending tilt to his lips. "I seem to have touched a nerve."

Sherlock's lip curled. He could easily crack his ribs right now, could bash his skull in, could do any number of highly unpleasant things. But he didn't, because he _knew _what he was trying to do. And he was...curious. Jim was a problem he needed to solve; not like John, John was like a birthday present that he wanted to unwrap, slowly and lazily and lovingly; Moriarty made his skin itch and his stomach turn, it made him want to clutch his hair in frustration because _what made him tick?_

He leaned in closer to Moriarty, bending so he could look into those eyes. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

Jim giggled. "Oh honey, we both know what I want."

Sherlock pulled back, ignoring the roll of his stomach at his words. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand to attention. "Stay away from me," He whispered menacingly, and walked out of the room. He wanted to warn him to stay away from John as well, but he didn't need to draw attention to their relationship. He would know if he tried to do anything to John. And, well, Jim wouldn't be stupid enough to try.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice anyone standing outside, which would have been unusual for him, but he was still seething, still thinking of that fucking smirk plastered on his face, as if he _knew _something Sherlock didn't- So he didn't notice the purposely outstretched leg outside the library door and tripped, sprawling spectacularly on his hands and knees to the floor. Pain flared in his chest and his knees, and he rolled over, hearing the sniggering from above. He looked up, resting on his elbows, eyes narrowing at the sight of Anderson and one of his friends, Carl Powers, he assumed- smirking down at him.

"Freak's too blind to notice where he's going," Anderson sniggered, and Sherlock didn't care, Sherlock didn't _think_, he just felt so fucking _angry _all of a sudden, he shot to his feet, and without preamble rammed his knuckles into Anderson's cheekbone.

Anderson staggered, clutching his jaw, and Sherlock was just massaging his stinging knuckles when Carl Powers shoved him roughly against the opposite wall with a snarl.

"Bloody freak," he spat, and pinned his elbow against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock struggled, trying to free himself of his grasp, he could feel the bony elbow digging into his windpipe- the bloke would crush it at this rate—

"Hey! Hey, get your hands off him!" suddenly someone shouted, and Sherlock would have recognized that voice anywhere.

John prised Carl away from him, giving him a rough shove on the chest so he staggered backwards. Sherlock took a great gulp of air, his knees buckling slightly. Relief flooded his lungs and his brain, and all his brain could manage to think was _Thank God. John._

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he seethed. His voice was calm, cold, and bloody terrifying. If he was Powers, he would have run away.

"John—" Sherlock tried to say weakly, but his voice was all breathy and even he couldn't hear it, and John took no notice of it, continuing to stare down Powers. Sherlock was slightly worried John might punch him, because he got riled up easily, and the last thing he wanted was for him to get into trouble because of _him._

"Ask your boyfriend," he sneered, pulling Anderson up from the ground. "Bloody psychopath—"

"Fuck off," John spat. "And don't you dare touch him again, do you hear me?"

"Or what?" Carl said, stepping closer to John. He was a few inches taller, but John had more muscle. Anderson realised things were getting heated, and he stood up, trying vainly to pull Carl back. The both of them were nose to nose, John glaring at Carl with his ice-cold eyes.

"Don't test me," John whispered. _Bloody John Watson._

Anderson succeeded in pulling Carl away with a frightened whisper of, "Blake'll be here any moment, come _on," _ They stalked away then, Carl's narrowed eyes glaring at John the whole time.

John turned to Sherlock, then, his eyes still blazing. His expression turned to one of worry and he quickly moved towards him. Sherlock coughed weakly, clutching his throat, and John's warm hands gently pulled him away from the wall, thumping him on the back.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he breathed, as Sherlock leaned against him slightly. He was quite capable of walking without support, but the steadying hand on the small of his back felt bloody wonderful. John rubbed his back soothingly, still looking concerned. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Your boyfriend's got a nasty temper."

The both of them turned around, to behold Jim Moriarty casually leaning against the door frame, smirking at the pair of them.

John tensed immediately. "You _saw_ what happened?"

"Obviously. Quite a show." He delicately inspected his fingernails, the very picture of nonchalance, and Sherlock wanted to strangle him.

"Firstly, he's not my boyfriend, and secondly- you _fucking bastard_," John spat, moving away from Sherlock and towards Jim. The sudden absence of contact made him feel cold, and then he saw John looking at Jim murderously and he felt a bit scared. John had quite a penchant for brawling, and he'd rather his best friend _didn't _end up in Blake's office. "You saw it and you didn't say anything? Are you mad?"

Jim didn't say anything, he just continued regarding him with the soft eyes and the cold smile. Then his eyes moved to Sherlock. "You've got your pet rather well trained."

"You bloody—"

"John," Sherlock warned, grabbing john's arm before he could wrap his fingers around Jim's throat. "He's not worth it. Come on."

John turned to him disbelievingly. "The smarmy—"

"I know." Sherlock said quietly, his gaze on Jim now. "Don't. It'll just make you feel worse. Come on."

Jim smirked, abut didn't say anything. Not until Sherlock had been successful in pulling John away from him and halfway down the corridor.

"The flirting isn't over, my dear!" he called after them.

* * *

><p>When they were down a different corridor, and hopefully well away from Jim, John stopped, leaning against the wall, and took a deep shuddering breath. Sherlock watched him wearily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, like he often did when he was trying to control his temper. Sherlock <em>hated it<em>, he hated it when John was angry, and wound up, and what made him feel even angrier that Jim could _so easily _provoke John, when he had no fucking _right _to. John cracked his neck twice before opening his eyes, those dark blue eyes boring right into his own.

"_The flirting isn't over_?" he repeated, in a low voice.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. And I don't care."

"He's deranged."

"Possibly."

John cracked a smile at that. "What did he want with you, anyway?"

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture. "I don't know, John. I don't want to talk about him." The hand gesture, however, involved flexing his fingers, and he realised that his knuckles were in agony. He made a hiss of pain, and gingerly brought his hand back, seeing the bruise blossoming on the pale skin for the first time.

"Oh, shit," John moved towards him instinctively, taking his hand gently in his own. He brushed a thumb over the knuckles, inspecting the marred skin. Sherlock watched John's expression, almost fascinated; it was extraordinary how John's face could change from glacial fury to deadly calm to gentle concern all in the space of five minutes. "Sherlock, what—"

"It's nothing," Sherlock quickly tried to retract his hand, but John wasn't having it. He gripped his wrist, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"You punched him. Anderson." John seemed to be trying very hard to hide a smile.

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock muttered.

Then John chuckled. "What it something he said? You don't get into fights." He kept his grip on his wrist, pulling him down the corridor, presumably to the washroom. Sherlock's mind could zoom into a number of possible reasons for this, but the most enticing ones were also the least probable. It was probably because John wanted to take care of the injury. _Dull_.

"The usual. Should have ignored it. Usually do." John had finally brought the both of them to the loo. Bringing him over to the sink, he turned the tap on, and gently placed Sherlock's hand under the ice cold water. It hurt at first, and Sherlock hissed at the stinging sensation, but then it ceased and it felt much better. Trust John to make things better.

He was looking at him, concerned, now. "Why didn't you?" His voice was low, almost hesitant.

Sherlock looked at him, taking in the eyes, the careful line of his lips, the Adam's apple bobbing apprehensively in his throat. He shook his head. "I don't know. Anderson is an idiot, and so is Carl Powers. I don't care for either of them- but. I don't know," he closed the tap, leaning his hip against the cold porcelain, gazing at John.

"It's that psycopath. Moriarty or whatever," John was rummaging in his bag for something. "He winds you up. He makes you angry. Hardly anyone is capable of doing that. So why him?" he had finally found it- crepe bandages and a tube of some sort of ointment. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Do you carry that around with you?"

"Obviously. I'm best friends with a madman who doesn't know how to take care of himself. I have to be prepared for injuries. And don't change the subject." He pulled Sherlock's unresisting wrist towards him, squeezing out the medicine and massaging it onto his knuckles.

Sherlock watched John's fingers for a while, marvelling at how wonderful and amazing and absolutely brilliant John was, before answering. "He's smart," he replied simply. John looked at him then.

"Like you."

"Like—

"No, no, wait," John shook his head. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." He started to unroll the bandages.

"John—"

"No, you're not like him. He's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all. So I'm sorry. He may be smart, but he's psychotic." John was gingerly wrapping the bandages around his hand now.

"People generally assume _I'm _the psychopath." Sherlock was trying to carry on the conversation while simultaneously trying to decipher the meaning of John's words in his head, _he's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all_. Obviously. John, with his limited knowledge of Sherlock would naturally assume he was amazing and brilliant and all the things that he was not, even though he had a feeling that he _was _a bit like Jim. A disturbing thought, one that made him feel slightly nauseous; but one that for some reason, seemed very, very true. It would have to be examined later.

"They're wrong." John tightly bound the bandage together, finally letting go of Sherlock's hand.

"You're right," Sherlock smirked. "The correct term is _high functioning sociopath_."

John looked slightly taken aback. "Sherlock, you're not a sociopath."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're the first one to say that. But I assure you, I am. I've been tested. Medically. Diagnosed. By experts."

Now it was John's turn to scoff. "Then they don't know shit. When were you tested?"

Sherlock shrugged. "When was I _not _tested? Mother and Father didn't think I was normal. So they had me tested. Over and over and over again. Enlarged brain capacity, high IQ, sociopathic tendencies, can't feel, can't cry. I didn't get jokes. I poisoned the cat. I wanted to keep dead frogs in the fridge. None of that was _normal_."

Sherlock listed all the things that had been scribbled onto a medical report and shoved under his parent's noses. This was him; right to the tiniest particle. This was him, condensed and reduced to the basic facts that made him _him_. A bare minimum that anyone needed to know before they went fleeing. And Sherlock could remember, _god_, he could remember. He could remember the harsh, bright lights and people in lab coats asking him questions, _experimenting_, like he was some sort of a lab rat. Poking him and prodding him until they told his parents and his brother that Sherlock wasn't capable of displaying any form of emotion.

John looked at him with an expression of horror, and Sherlock shut up immediately. _Fuck_. He shouldn't have told him. Now John would run, like everyone else. Because that's what people did, didn't they? They realised he was different, and they didn't like it, and they made a run for it.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, _no," _John breathed, and before Sherlock had any time to react, he had thrown his arms around his torso and was crushing his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Sherlock's senses were suddenly assaulted by John; the smell of him, the feel of him against his chest, and his fingers twitched with the need to wrap his own arms around him and press him even closer. He seemed to be literally drowning in him, because _never- oh god-John_. This couldn't _possibly-_

"You complete _idiot_," John mumbled against his shoulder, hugging him even tighter. Sherlock closed his eyes to just relish the warmth of John's body against his own, the few layers of clothing that separated them- "You utter _fool_," Then he pulled away, his hands were still lightly around his waist, but he was looking at Sherlock then, his eyes round and warm and a pink flush creeping up his cheeks. "Sherlock, that's not true. _At all_. They're wrong, do you hear me? Your parents, the experts, I don't care, they're all idiots. They don't know you, I do. You are brilliant and warm and funny, and you're a bit crazy, but that's just a part of you. You are not a _sociopath_, for god's sake, of course you have feelings. Your parents are blind; they don't know how fantastic you are. Sherlock," John moved his hands from his hips to place them on either side of his face, his thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his eyes boring into his own. Sherlock's lips parted at the look on his face. "John-" he started.

"No, listen to me, you bastard. Stop this. Stop this right now. You are not some sort of cold robot that all those fools make you out to be, okay? I know you, and I've seen you, and you have feelings, and emotions, and all that other rubbish- they just haven't been special enough to be on the receiving end of it. This...this stops, now. I don't want you to think of yourself in this way. Okay? Sherlock, do you understand?"

"John, I-" he couldn't finish that sentence. His brain seemed to be working sluggishly slow, unable to comprehend just how _much _those words meant to him he could hardly believe them- no one, _no one _had ever said these things to him- and how could John? John was perfect, whole, unbroken, and he thought Sherlock, _Sherlock, _of all people—

"Sherlock tell me," John said gruffly.

"I- I understand," his voice shook.

John breathed a sigh of relief, his hands dropping from his face, looking at Sherlock like _he had done the most brilliant _thing possible, when clearly John was the one almost _incandescent_ with brilliance. And at that moment Sherlock's non-existent heart seemed to swell with the very _thought_ of John Watson, and his mental processes seemed to grind to a halt, he didn't think, he didn't stop; he simply leaned forward, tilted his head and pressed his lips firmly to John's.

John uttered a shrill squeak of shock, moving back slightly, but Sherlock paid no heed, bridging the temporary gap again and moving more insistently against John's lips; cradling the back of his head with one hand, his fingers resting in John's soft hair. He tasted _wonderful_, of tea and toast and _John_; his lips were slightly chapped and wet, and utterly _delicious_. He pushed him back against the cool tiled wall, pinning him there with his hips. John's initial surprise seemed to melt as he gingerly placed a hand around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer almost roughly, and Sherlock pressed his lips against John's harder, nibbling softly on the lower lip, and when John's lips parted under his inquisitive tongue, he explored the unchartered territory that was John's mouth. Sherlock's moved his hands down to John's waist to keep him shoved against the wall, and John's fingers at his neck tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair.

"Sherlock," John breathed against his lips, and his voice was breathy and husky and John was almost _whimpering, _and Sherlock couldn't help but rock his hips unconsciously against John's, all too aware of the growing hardness between his legs.

Everything around him seemed to pale into insignificance; Sherlock didn't care that this was _wrong_ and John would never forgive him for this, that he was kissing John with a ceaseless abandon that was probably tearing apart the last shreds of their friendship; all he knew that he was snogging this gorgeous, brilliant blue eyed boy in a bathroom and in Sherlock's mind all he could concentrate on was how absolutely _filthy _that was, and it just turned him on even more, and he grinded against John even harder, eliciting a moan from John that was so bloody _dirty _that Sherlock catalogued it to be used for later purposes. Of a sexual nature.

And then suddenly, the ball rang, the shrill sound echoing off the cavernous walls of the bathroom, and John gasped under Sherlock's mouth, and putting his hands on his shoulders, pushed him away almost roughly as if he had been gripped by some sudden thought.

"Shit," he said through gritted teeth, covering his flushed face with his hands. "Shit, shit, shit," he repeated.

It took a while for Sherlock to realize his body wasn't pressed against John's anymore, there was a faint buzz in his ears and his lips were still tingling. Not to mention the uncomfortable ache in his groin. He had to blink several times before everything came into focus, and then he saw John, cursing furiously under his breath, picking up his bag from the floor; and suddenly Sherlock realised the utter _idiocy _of what he had just done.

"John," he said, his voice low. He seemed incapable of saying anything else, especially when John turned to look at him; and he saw John's swollen lips and bright eyes and the tousled hair- he looked messy and dirty and utterly _gorgeous_. But then he saw the expression on his face, and his heart plummeted down to his stomach. Bloody hell, what had he _done_?

He moved towards John, and John instinctively took a step back, holding up a hand. Sherlock froze, his blood running cold. _No, no, no...John, please, no. _Obviously, obviously...now he had snogged John senseless and John had _obviously _not wanted it and he was probably afraid he would try to get hold of him again. Sherlock felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

"John," he said again, rather pathetically.

John shook his head, moving away from him. "No, don't," he said, his voice low. He was moving towards the door now. "I should get home."

"John, wait," Sherlock spluttered, running to fill the distance, and grabbing his wrist. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Let's just forget this, yeah?" John said, removing his wrist from Sherlock's grip. "I'll go home, and you'll go home, and tomorrow we'll forget this even happened." His voice was trembling, and he was pale. _Fucking hell_.

_He's still talking to me. He still wants to see me tomorrow. Good. Okay. _It was illogical to think that John would have wanted anything more, he had probably put up with him for the last five minutes to satisfy Sherlock's depraved desires; but he knew John wouldn't _flee _again. He couldn't, he _wouldn't—_

"Hey," John said. His tone was a bit more gentle. "Don't worry about it, okay?" He moved his hand up as if to caress his cheek, but then thought better of it, and his hand fell to his side. He moved back, away from Sherlock, his back towards the corridor, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's "I'll er—see you—um—tomorrow. Bye." And then he turned around, and walked right out.

Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, trying desperately to control the rising panic in his chest. _It's okay. It's okay. He said he'll see you tomorrow. He'll be here tomorrow. It's okay. _But it was of no use. All he could think about was the feel of John's lips against his own, the warmth of his body; the way he practically _moaned _into his mouth—and then the way he had pushed him back, as if he couldn't bear his touch anymore.

Sherlock groaned, gripping his curls in frustration. Maybe he could just delete the entire encounter- yes, that seemed like a plausible thing to do. John wanted him to forget, so he would- anything for John. But—but if he never got to kiss John again, he didn't want to remove all memory of this one-especially if it was all he was like to have. No. Sherlock leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, breathing a bit more calmly. One more day, maybe, He'd keep it for one more day.

He really needed a cigarette.

* * *

><p><strong>*hides behind metaphorical wall* Well...I...um...hope you liked that? *celebratory dance because yay kiss finally* right? RIGHT? Um. haha.<strong>

**anyway. As usual, your thoughts and suggestions are priceless. Please drop a line on your way out. It would mean a lot to me. :)**

**See you next update!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Sheriarty is not my ship of choice. So, know that this pains me to write as much as it may pain you to read. But you know what they say. It's always darkest before dawn.**

**Warnings: Drama, Angst. Angst, Drama.**

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**Sorry for the typos. :/**

* * *

><p>:11:<p>

Mycroft had dealt with Sherlock enough to know when he should be worried. Now was one of those times.

And things had been going so _well_. He thought John Watson had been a good influence on his brother; but he had been utterly blind, and hadn't realised just how _dependent _he had become on him. He knew John adored him, of course, you would be an idiot to not see that—but something had _definitely _happened and now he was worried.

Sherlock had been attending classes fairly regularly the past month or two. Ever since he had met John. He was, of course, an intelligent child and had no difficulty in his classes, his marks never dropped. And now he was holed up in his bedroom, _asleep_. He had refused to go to school. It had been a very long time since Mycroft had been subject to his tantrums. But Sherlock had shouted and grumbled and grouched and thrown his things at anyone who tried to come into his room. In the end Mycroft gave up. His parents had given up much before that.

He tried speaking to him. It didn't work.

"_Sherlock?" he called softly, knocking on the door._

"_Go away!" he shouted back. His voice was scratchy and broke a bit in the middle of the sentence._

"_Why don't you open your door?"_

"_Why do you _think_, you great big ponce?"_

_Mycroft sighed. Insults. Stellar start to a meaningful conversation. "Sherlock, it would be in your best interests to—"_

"_I'm not one of your stupid government clerks, Mycroft! I don't give a fuck about my best interests, and neither do you! So do yourself a favour and go away!"_

_Cussing. A new development. This was out of the ordinary. Something really _was _wrong._

"_Is this something to do with John Watson?" he asked. Stupid question. Not your best line of questioning._

_Silence on the other end of the door. Bingo._

"_Open your door," Mycroft repeated._

"_No," was all Sherlock said. His voice had lost its forcefulness. "Please leave."_

_That had signalled the end of his attempt._

Mycroft sighed. He really needed to get back to work. But he didn't feel comfortable leaving Sherlock alone at home, in this state. It was usually now that he...he shook his head. No, he wouldn't. He knew that Mycroft would have no other choice but to send him off to rehab.

The doorbell rang.

Mycroft waited for Rogers to go and open it, and sure enough, he heard the sound of the door opening. Low voices. A knock came on the door of his study two minutes later.

"Sir," he said. "It's a friend of your brother's, sir." He called.

Oh, lovely. John. He could finally put an end to this madness. "Show him to the sitting room, and tell him to wait," he said, getting up and opening the door. Rogers nodded, scurrying downstairs to deliver the message.

* * *

><p>But it was not John.<p>

It was a different boy, frail-built, slender, dark- haired. He lounged comfortably in the arm chair, a polite smile plastered on to his face as he saw Mycroft enter. Something didn't seem right about him. Mycroft felt his scalp prickle.

"Good afternoon," he said. "And...you are?"

"Oh, good afternoon, sir," the boy said, getting up hurriedly. "I'm Jim, sir, Jim Moriarty. I'm one of Sherlock's friends."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Friend?" he asked, looking down at the boy. The boy smiled back, his soft brown gaze digging into Mycroft's. "How odd. He's never mentioned you."

"Oh, we just met yesterday. But he's such a great bloke. I was worried why he didn't come today. Thought I'd just pop in. May I?"

_Great bloke_? This boy was very likely mistaken.

"Oh, yes, of course. Although he's locked his door and is rather adamant to meet anyone right now. But if you believe you will be able to get to him, please be my guest."

The boy grinned, a spark of something in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't place. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay on his back on his seldom used bed, staring up at the ceiling.<p>

It was stupid, really. Immature. Illogical. All of the things he detested. But he didn't trust himself anymore. He had tried to prevent himself from doing anything rash yesterday, and well. That had gone rather well, hadn't it?

And now he actually knew what John _tasted _like. And the urge to taste him again was...insatiable. He didn't know whether he'd be able to control himself if he saw him again, when all he wanted to do was pin him to the wall and snog the life out of him. Sherlock groaned, entangling his fingers in his hair. It had been exactly twenty five hours since he had seen John last, and he didn't know whether it was healthy to miss a person quite so much.

To _want _a person quite so much. Surely no one had ever wanted someone as much as he wanted John right now.

Someone rudely interrupted his thoughts by knocking on the door.

"What have I said about fucking off?" he screamed, throwing a book at the door. The door rattled with the force of _Advanced Quantum Physics._

"My, my, what a temper."

Sherlock's blood froze.

_What _was he doing here? How _dare _he come here? He scrambled out of bed, not caring that he was just dressed in a pair of track pants and his hair was a mess. He threw the door open, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Jim stood in front of him, a smirk playing on his mouth.

"Afternoon," he drawled, his eyes raking Sherlock's torso. "Well, don't you look ravishing?" he smiled. He stepped closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock immediately stepped back. Jim took the opportunity of entering his room and shutting it shut with his foot. He leaned back against it, taking in Sherlock's dump of a room, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his uniform, so he had inevitably come here from school. Jim loosened his tie. "Lovely place you have here. Always knew you were one of the posh ones."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock finally seemed to find his voice. He felt exposed without his t-shirt, but he didn't want to draw attention to the fact. So he just stood straighter, on his guard. Like he usually was. Like he always had been, before John.

"Well, you didn't come today, did you? I missed you."

Sherlock snorted. "No you didn't. Look, I really don't want you here. Leave."

"Oh, you don't mean that, do you?" Jim stepped closer to him. He reached a hand up, brushing the back of Sherlock's cheek with his knuckles. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's exposed skin. He took a step back.

"I said leave," he said, but his voice didn't sound as forceful as he meant it to.

Jim probably noticed to, because he laughed. A condescending little laugh that made Sherlock want to strangle him. "Why don't you tell me why you bunked today instead?" he walked further into Sherlock's room, walking with a casual grace that seemed to be apart of him. He stood in front of Sherlock's crime board. He couldn't see his expression.

"None of your concern," Sherlock said, finally moving over to the side of his bed and pulling on a T-shirt.

Jim turned around, his eyes taking in the new garment. Sherlock noticed the knowing look, but Jim didn't say anything. Smirking, he said, "I believe it is. Come on. Go on. Tell me. Something to do with Little Johnny, is it? What happened, love? Trouble in paradise?" he finished the last part of the sentence with a sneer.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. God, he hated him so much. He was cruel. He was cruel for bringing that up. What did he _want _from him?

"Like I said, it's none of your concern."

"You look a mess. Come on. Let's go for a walk." Jim sauntered over to him, running his fingers over Sherlock's bed as he did so. He stood in front of him again, uncomfortably close. Sherlock stood his guard. The last thing he needed was Jim assuming he was afraid of him.

"Absolutely not," he replied, putting a palm on Jim's chest and pushing him back, gently, but firmly. "Take a walk yourself."

"Come off it. You want to come with me, you know you do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why do you propose I would want to do that?"

Jim smiled knowingly. "Because you're bored. And you're curious. One of my favourite combinations."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, studying Jim. The brown hair, now slightly tousled, sticking up in every direction over his head. The tie. The uniform. Why was it so impossible to deduce him? Bored. Curious. He was those things. But he was _always _bored and curious.

"You have a very opinion of yourself, don't you?"

Jim looked unperturbed by Sherlock's scornful tone. "No. But I have a high opinion of you. You won't disappoint me, will you?" He lifted a hand to run a finger down the side of Sherlock's throat. His heart rate doubled.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock grabbed Jim's wrist lightly and pushed it down. "I'm afraid you _will _be disappointed. Go. You're wasting your time."

"Oh _please_. You're dying to come with me. And you know that I know. Come on, Sherlock, aren't you _curious_? I can see it, you know. I can see it in the way your fingers twitch," he brushed a hand down Sherlock's arm. "I can see it in your _eyes_. You're dying to see what makes...me..._tick_." He kept coming closer, with each word, until his face was a centimetre away from his own, his gaze on Sherlock's mouth, his own lips parting.

Sherlock moved away from him immediately, all too aware of the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, although it must be freezing outside.

"What are we going to do?" he asked, his voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ears.

Jim smiled, triumphantly. "Oh, nothing much. We'll just...talk," his gaze darkened at the word. "And smoke. You're dying for a fag, aren't you? You've been trying to cut down, haven't you? For John, I'm assuming. But I don't think John really cares, either way."

Sherlock felt his swollen throat and the moisture in his own eyes. _You're not going to cry, are you? Stop it. Not in front of Jim, you idiot. That's what he wants. That's what he's trying to do. John likes you. He said so, remember? Come on. Don't listen to Jim. He's an idiot. He doesn't know John, you do._

Sherlock cracked his neck. "Very well. Let's go for this _walk_." He leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing his coat.

He was curious, after all.

* * *

><p>There was a little-frequented cemetery a few minutes away from Sherlock's neighbourhood. He knew it well, of course; there had been a murder there, two years ago. When Sherlock was a skinny fourteen year old and nobody took him seriously. They put the wrong man in jail, of course.<p>

Jim took him there.

"Funny, isn't it?" Jim asked, taking out a cigarette from his pocket and handing him one. He lit his cigarette, before leaning in and lighting Sherlock's. "The way we bury our dead."

Sherlock inhaled the smoke, leaning against the yew tree that had been ever since he had come here the first time. He squinted at Jim. "Why is it funny?"

Jim trailed his fingers over a tombstone. "They're afraid of them, but they'll keep them. They'll bury them under layers of dirt, out of _respect_. Getting smothered in mud isn't respect."

"Humans are stupid. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Oh, I have. I have. You think they're stupid too, don't you? I can see it in the way you look at everyone," he smirked, walking towards him and leaning against the tree next to him. "That _disgust _in your face. I understand. People are so _slow_." He slid down the trunk of the tree, drawing his knees to his chest. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist to pull him down as well.

"And you're not?" he asked, removing his wrist from Jim's grasp as soon as he was sitting, his pyjama- clad legs stretched out in front of him.

"I would've thought you'd noticed it by now," Jim flicked some ash off the tip of his cigarette. "I noticed _you_, didn't I?"

"Everyone notices me," Sherlock said, his tone betraying more emotion than he wanted to let on.

The corner of Jim's lip twitched. "Yes, but not for the reasons you _should _be noticed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Jim? Why are we here?"

Jim turned his head towards him. "You should ask yourself that question." He drummed his pale fingers on Sherlock's knee. "You're not the only one who gets _bored_."

Sherlock stared at those fingers, making circles on his thigh, taking liberties, taking risks, _touching_. He should leave. He should go, tell Jim to fuck off and leave him alone. Why was he staying? Why was he still here?

"I'm sure there are better ways of satisfying your curiosity," Sherlock muttered, taking Jim's hand, to move it away, but Jim interlaced their fingers instead, forcefully.

"There are _other _ways, but there are no _better _ways, Sherlock," He lifted their entwined hands and brushed his lips against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shuddered, trying to tug his hand away, but he wasn't trying hard enough.

"So that's what you think I am? A means to an end?" He finally succeeded in freeing himself from Jim's grasp.

Jim smirked. "You are _so _much more than that. You don't realise, do you? All the _brilliant _things you could do. You're so much _smarter, _Sherlock, so much _better_. And yet you...you just let it go. You think John appreciates you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "Don't you dare." He was not allowed to talk about John. He had no _right_.

He chuckled darkly. "You're so _sensitive _about your little pet. You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you? But _him_, I don't know," he studied his fingers nonchalantly.

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, his voice betraying the faintest hint of a tremble.

"You're in love with him." he turned to him, smirking. Sherlock felt the back of his throat swell, his heart rate increasing. "He's pretty, I'll grant you that. Sure love the rugby boys."

"Don't talk about him like that," he snapped, standing up. "And it's _none of your _fucking_ business_."

Jim stood up too, standing in front of him, stepping close so he was slightly trapped. He could overpower him, he was taller. And yet...

"It's my business if you're not appreciated, Sherlock," Jim whispered, reaching up to brush his thumb against Sherlock's cheekbone. "Don't you think you deserve better?" He stepped closer, so there was hardly any distance between them. He reached up to cup the nape of Sherlock's neck.

_Get out. Run. Run. Get away from him._

"John isn't any of your concern," he said, his voice far too low and far too soft.

"True. He isn't. But you are," he pulled his neck forward, so he could reach up, his lips too close to Sherlock's mouth to be innocent anymore.

"Jim—" Sherlock started, putting a hand lightly on his chest. Jim smirked, moving forward. His lips pressed against Sherlock's, his tongue skirting out to flick against his bottom lip, and he was about to deepen it, when Sherlock pushed him back with both hands.

Jim stumbled.

Sherlock moved away from the tree, away from Jim, feeling like he was about to be sick. He rubbed his hand over his lips forcefully, like that would wash away the ghost of Jim's touch.

"I'm not that bad, you know," he said, leaning against the tree, looking at Sherlock with amusement.

"You're...you're _pathetic," _Sherlock spat. "Fuck off. Go away. And don't come near John, or you'll regret it."

Jim laughed, throwing his head back, peels of mirth issuing from his lips. "So _protective_. He doesn't care about you, Sherlock. He doesn't _understand _you. Not like I do. Not like I could. I—"

"No," Sherlock said, holding up a finger. "No, you don't get to talk about him. Bye. Thanks for the cigarette."

He turned around, making his way towards the gate, not looking back, just walking quickly, trying to get as far as he could form Jim and the guilt and the filthy feeling on his mouth.

But he couldn't. Jim didn't follow him, so when he reached the gate and stepped out, he was still alone. He leaned against the stone wall, thankful for the mostly empty street, and took a shaky breath. What had he _done_? He ran his fingers over his lips again, where he felt like he could still feel Jim clinging to them. He felt dirty, he felt _soiled._ He wanted to wash his mouth out with detergent, salt water, acid, anything that would wash away that filthy feeling. What would John say? Oh _John..._if he hadn't ruined their friendship before, well. He had definitely done that now.

He wanted to go home.

He turned around, walking, reaching a hand up to rub his eyes, where moisture was threatening to spill out. He couldn't...not because of _Jim_. That psychotic, conniving _bastard._

* * *

><p>When he came home, his parents were out, and Mycroft's car wasn't in the garage, so he must be at work too. Yet something told him that <em>someone <em>was home.

"Rogers?" He called, stepping into the living room. The butler came out from the kitchen.

"Ah, yes, Master Holmes. Miss. Adler is here to see you. I sent her to your room."

"Why is she in my room? You could have put her here, where the _guests _sit," he replied irritably, but making his way upstairs instead. He was sort of glad Irene was here. He had no idea why, it was almost seven, and Irene was usually out with her boyfriends/girlfriends at that point of time. Nevertheless, he could tell her about Jim. He needed to tell _someone _about that sordid accident in the cemetery. She would be able to provide perspective, she always was.

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, throwing open his door.

Irene was sitting cross legged on his blue rug, her head in her hands, sobbing.

_She's crying. She's definitely crying. Okay. Think carefully. What do people do in these situations? Hot beverage? No, ask her why she's crying first. What if she doesn't say anything? You're supposed to comfort her. Yes, but how? Embracing is the most common means of comfort. Okay. I can do that. I'll...embrace her? Hopefully she won't slap me. Irene slaps people when she's angry._

He stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind him carefully. Irene heard the noise, and she looked up. She looked terrible. Her usually perfect hair was falling apart, strands framing her swollen, tear-stained face. Her lips were dry and cracked. She looked far too pale. Sherlock was worried now. Surely someone hadn't died? _Oh, is it a murder? Wait. No. Stop it. She'll slap you_.

"Irene?" he asked, stepping closer to her, sitting down in next to her, crossing his legs like her. "Why are you crying?"

_Good start_.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry," she wailed. "I shouldn't have—but I didn't know who else to—I just couldn't—" she promptly fell to tears again.

"Er...it's...alright," he said, patting her back awkwardly. "Do you...want to talk about it?"

"It's...Peter," she finally chocked out, getting the name out with difficulty.

_Peter. 25 years old. Son of the one of the ministers in the House of Commons. Substandard student. Went to Oxford, (because of his father) just passed out. Didn't amount to much. Conventionally handsome and rich. Irene's type. She's crying. Dead? Or Broken Up? Not good. What was he supposed to do? He had warned her about him. Should he—no, reminding her of that was a terrible idea._

"Is he...dead?" he asked, rather hopefully.

Irene gave a short, bitter laugh. _She's laughing. So I'm doing a good job of comforting her? No. Wait. It was sarcastic. Not doing a good job at all._

"I wish he was," she said, venomously.

"So...he's not dead."

"He cheated on me," she said dully. "He..._cheated _on me." Then her face crumpled and she started sobbing again. "I thought—I actually thought I was in love with him," her words were slurring now, becoming incoherent, with the force of her sobs.

Sherlock awkwardly put an arm around her, supposing that this was an acceptable thing to do. He cared for Irene, he really did. She had been one of his only...friends...before John, and he didn't like seeing her hurt like this. Stupid sodding Peter.

Irene pressed herself closer to Sherlock, burying her face in his side, wrapping an arm around his torso. "I really thought...I really thought that it would be different. That _he _was different."

"It's...alright," he said, unsure of what else to say. He wasn't liking the physical contact very much either, but that couldn't be helped.

"I'm sorry I'm bothering you. Where were you? Why are you still in your pyjamas?" she sniffed.

"I—never mind."

"I wish boys were more like you," she gave watery laugh.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Surely you're joking."

She giggled again. _Good sign_. "No, I mean, you'd never...cheat on me. If you didn't fancy me that way, you would have told me."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "True. And you're better off without him. He's an insufferable twat. So dull."

Irene fiddled with the lapels of his coat. "I've always wondered. You know. What it to be like...to be with you. In that way."

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Er...I'm not...you know I'm not..." he babbled.

"Yeah, I know. You'd never be interested in me. It's different. Usually every other boy I meet wants to fuck me. But you're...you've never been like that. That was one of the main reasons I liked you so much."

_She's distraught. She doesn't know what she's saying. Don't send her away yet._

"Well, now you know...that—er—I'm sure you'll find someone."

"_Someone," _she lifted her eyes to look at him. Or rather his mouth. "But not you," she bit her lip. "You would be nice."

"Irene, I—"

But she silenced him with her lips.

* * *

><p>John fiddled with the stupid bowtie for the umpteenth time.<p>

What was he even _doing_? This entire situation was ridiculous. He didn't want to go. At all. But he had promised Sarah, and only wankers would ditch a girl on the day of a dance.

But he felt so terrible. He sat on the edge of his bed, covering his face with his hands. This had been the worst day of his life. Yesterday had possibly been worse.

Sherlock had _kissed _him. Actually _kissed _him. On his mouth. With his lips. He brought a hand up to touch his lips, remembering the feel of those lips against his, how perfectly they had fit together. How Sherlock had pushed him against the wall like that, his tongue in his mouth, his hands on his hips, the clear evidence of his arousal digging between his legs...

And he had run away.

He had actually _fled_, when he had wanted nothing other than kissing Sherlock back with all the ferocity and longing that he deserved. He was a coward, he really was. But he was so _scared_. Of losing Sherlock. Wasn't it better to remain friends, with the comfort of knowing that Sherlock would always be there, than being with him in _that _way, the threat of him leaving him hanging over them? It was unthinkable. He couldn't bear imagining what it would be like for them, Sherlock feeling too awkward to talk to him properly anymore.

And yet he couldn't go on like this. Denying himself the one thing he really, really wanted. The person he wanted in a way he had never wanted anyone before. Sherlock hadn't even come to school today. The guilt in John's stomach threatened to spill out of his mouth like vomit, and he had to swallow to drive it back in. Had he really hurt Sherlock that much? Of course he had. And after everything he had told him, about his childhood. John had rejected him like everyone else. He felt disgusted with himself.

He needed to see him. He was going to go right now and tell him that he was sorry and he wanted him and he would quite like to kiss him again, and this time he'd kiss him for as long as he liked and he wouldn't run, never again. He'd kiss him long and deep and slow, just like he deserved.

Sarah would understand right?

He pulled on the blazer and the scarf because it was cold outside, and ran down the stairs, two at a time. But his mother was just coming up.

"John!" she exclaimed. "Where are you running off to? I was about to call you. Sarah's here."

John's eyes widened. "Sarah?" he asked, weakly.

"Yeah, hi," she waved to him from the door. She was dressed in a blue dress and a jacket, clearly ready to go.

"You're...here?" he asked, coming down slowly.

"Yeah, I was passing your house and I thought I'd pick you up. Is that a problem?" she raised an eyebrow.

He was in front of her now. _Of course it's a bloody problem. But I am going to fix this, and I don't care what you think_.

"Oh, no. Not at all." He checked his watch. Six-thirty. He gave Sarah one of his most charming smiles. The smile he used on girls when he actually wanted to get it on with them. "You don't mind if we stop somewhere along the way, do you?"

* * *

><p>Sarah brought the car to a halt in front of Sherlock's house.<p>

"What are we doing here?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Just give me a minute, yeah?" he asked, stepping out. "I'll just be a minute." Then he leaned forward and kissed her quickly. _If she didn't hate you before, she's definitely going to hate you now_.

She blushed, and smiled shyly. "Okay, but don't be long."

"Of course," he gave her another charming smile and shut the door. Then he ran as fast as he could, hammering on the door. He only realised he could have just as easily rung the bell when Rogers opened the door.

"Mr. Watson," he said, surprised. "What can I—"

"No time to chat, Rog!" John called, pushing him aside and running across the living room and up the staircase.

* * *

><p>Sherlock broke away from her as soon as he heard someone bang the door open. The kiss had lasted roughly for seven seconds. He should have pushed her away before.<p>

He turned to the door to see who it was.

John.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was that John was wearing a suit and he looked utterly...well...he looked _hot._ His mind sort of went blank.

"Am I...interrupting something?" John asked. His voice was quiet. And polite. Far too polite. _Shit._

"No, no, no," Sherlock said quickly, because he just realised what John must have deduced from the scene. But he couldn't think...not _Irene _of all people? John wouldn't think that, would he?

_Why was everyone so bent on kissing him today?! Why wouldn't anyone leave him alone, god damn it? Why couldn't John be the person he had kissed instead? _

"My apologies," John said, his voice almost a whisper. He had gone pale, and his fingers were shaking.

Irene didn't say anything, her hands were clamped around her mouth, and _she wasn't saying anything_.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, crossing the length of the room in three quick strides to stand in front of John.

And there it was again, that urge to grab his face and kiss him until he was gasping for air. John held up a hand, and it reminded him so much of yesterday that he felt his feet go cold.

"This was a mistake," John said. "I'm sorry."

"No, John, it's not what you—" couldn't he _see_? How could he be so utterly _blind_? Sherlock loved _him_, god damn it, did he actually believe-?

"Sarah's waiting downstairs. I'll go. Bye." Then he turned around, and ran down the stairs.

And Sherlock didn't do anything, he just stood there, frozen in spot, his lips sealed, his feet rooted to the ground, he didn't stop John. He just kept thinking about the fact that he had just realised he was in love with John Watson, and that he had kissed two people today, none of whom were John Watson. And that made today a very terrible day indeed. And John thought...John obviously thought he fancied Irene. Should he go? Should he follow him? But John must be gone by now. With Sarah.

"Sherlock," Irene finally found her voice. It was shaking. "Go after him."

His voice shook as he said the next words. "I hate you."

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><p><strong>Sorry about the cliffie. So sorry. <strong>

**Do be a darling and write me a review to tell me how you felt. Even if it's just you berating me on how utterly cruel I am. :)**

**Have a great week. :D**


	12. Chapter 12

**This is a quicker update than I intended. But you lot have been very patient with me while I angsted this fic to the ground. So. Here you are. It's also one huge monster of a chapter...almost 9000 words. But once I started, I couldn't stop. Sorry. :P**

**Warnings: Nope. Enjoy yourselves.**

**BUT. I am very nervous about this chapter because let's face it we all knew where this was heading. I know you guys have been waiting for it, and I hope I've lived up to your expectations.**

**And, so. Voila. **

**(BTW. I've corrected some rather cringe-worthy typos that were there in earlier chapters. So if they horrified you as much as they horrified me, no worries. I've fixed them all up. :D )**

**So. Um. The chapter. Yeah. Also, if you spot any typos, I apologise deeply. They burn my eyes too. But I didn't have time to proofread this, I just wanted to post it asap. PM me, I will correct.**

* * *

><p>:12:<p>

John hadn't waited. Maybe he should have, listened to Sherlock's explanation, but really, what could he have possibly said? And if Sherlock really had anything to _explain_, he would have followed him, right? He was half hoping that he would run after him, grab his wrist and tell him what a big misunderstanding it all was. But he didn't.

So he ran down, ran outside, and flung open the door of Sarah's car, tumbling inside it. "Drive," he snapped at Sarah.

She raised her eyebrows at him, but wisely chose to say nothing.

It was difficult to control his breathing on the way to school, to wash away that image of Sherlock kissing Irene that was now branded into his brain. But really, could he blame him? John had rejected Sherlock. He was in his own right to do what he pleased with whoever he pleased. But still. It hurt.

God, it hurt so much. He could physically feel that dull ache in his breastbone, the jealousy that was twisting his gut into knots. The thought of _Irene_, beautiful, perfect, elegant Irene, with beautiful, perfect, elegant Sherlock; come on, what chance did he have against _that_?

It was not easy hiding those feelings with Sarah, and he knew that it was going to be a nightmare dancing with her tonight when he didn't want anyone else but Sherlock. And Sherlock, well. John had had his chance, and he had thrown it away, because he was an idiot. He smiled faintly thinking of how Sherlock would agree whole heartedly to that. He wondered if they would ever be able to get to that playful banter again, because it would be one hell of a task to hide his feelings _now._

Sarah's car pulled up in front of school.

He got out of the car and opened the door for her, because, well, he didn't really dislike Sarah, and he wasn't going to be a douche and ignore her the whole evening. It was cold, so he put an arm around her, and she seemed to like that; the only problem being that John couldn't stop thinking about how it would feel to touch Sherlock in that way.

"So, I take it Sherlock isn't going to come?" Sarah asked, linking her arm with John's. They walked up the stone steps, where other couples were lounging, waiting for the festivities to begin in earnest.

"Ah, no. I didn't really expect him to," he didn't want to talk about him. It _hurt_.

"Well, he had no dearth of dates," Sarah sniffed. "It's not your fault."

Oh yes. Sherlock definitely did _not _have a dearth of people waiting to get a leg up on him.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He took Sarah to the Hall, where loud music was playing. Christmas decorations were hung up around the huge room, tables lined the walls with food and soda. It looked exactly like the kind of place Sherlock would have absolutely _detested. _John couldn't help but smile at that.

"Come on," Sarah said. "Let's dance."

John tried to be nice, he really did. He listened to all of Sarah's stories, and he held her while they danced, and he even kissed her back when she kissed him. He hated it and he hated it and god he wanted to be anywhere but here.

He could see Anderson and Donavan in the corner, and Carl Powers with some busty blonde, Sherlock would have called her 'vapid', and Victor Trevor and Henry, not dancing, but in the corner, drinking soda, rather close together, and they certainly didn't seem to have any other dates...hmm...he hadn't thought of that, Sherlock would have much to say on that matter...and all those other happy couples dancing and having _fun _and being with someone they wanted to be with. It made that jealousy flare up in the pit of his stomach again, and that longing just wouldn't stop.

"John, are you alright?" Sarah asked.

"What?" his eyes widened. "Oh, yeah, yeah," and he twirled her around a bit so she would shut up.

And suddenly, there it was.

That fission, that spark of _something_, a prickle in his scalp. His body seem to have attuned itself to Sherlock's presence. He had barely enough time to turn around to see if he was just imagining it, when a lithe, slender figure suddenly presented itself to the both of them, walking right up, and it seemed like he made them stop dancing with the sheer force of his will.

Holy shit. He was _here_.

"Hello, Sarah," he said coolly, but then he turned his gaze back to John. It was hard, a bit harsh, and fucking_ hot_. His hair was tousled like he had been running his fingers through it incessantly; it stuck up in every direction. He was wearing a pair of ratty jeans under the grey T-shirt he usually wore when he slept (yes, John remembered that), and there was an unmistakable whiff of cigarette smoke. He decided to address that later.

"John, may I have a word with you?" he raised an eyebrow. His voice sliced through the air like a knife. That wasn't a question, or a request. It was a bloody _order_. John's mouth dried.

"Uh—"

"Um, excuse, he's my date?" Sarah said defensively, her grip tightening on John's bicep.

By this time, most of the Hall had gone quiet, because really, Sherlock Holmes had just barged in, in his messy hair and his sexy coat and _why couldn't John stop noticing that_? But yes. People were interested.

"I'm very well aware of that, thank you," Sherlock snapped, rather harshly.

"Yes, yes," John said, almost fervently. "Sarah, just give us a minute, please?" he kept his gaze locked on Sherlock as he said that. Sherlock looked back at him almost intensely, something in those silver eyes he couldn't quite place. All he knew was that with the way he was looking at him, it was highly probable he was going to get a rock- hard erection in the middle of the Hall so it would be safe to leave _now_.

Sherlock didn't wait for Sarah's answer. He grabbed John's arm, ripped him away from Sarah's grasp, and dragged him across the length of the hall. John didn't seem to be able to resist it, and everyone was staring at the scene that unfolded in front of them like a well-rehearsed drama.

"Sherlock, what—" John started to say, but Sherlock interrupted him with a quick, "John, shut up for a moment."

He dragged him halfway down the corridor, then he stopped for a second in front of a door, and kicked it open with his foot. The door wasn't locked, but he heard the sound of something splintering and he knew that Sherlock had definitely broken something. He knew that something was very, very wrong, but the only problem was that he was finding it difficult to concentrate on why that may be when Sherlock looked fucking _pissed._

He only had time to notice that it was an empty classroom, and that Sherlock had just locked the door, when he pushed him roughly against it, pinning his wrists above his head.

Every coherent thought vanished from his head.

All he was aware of was Sherlock's in front of him, everywhere, eclipsing every other little thing into nothingness, because here Sherlock was, large as life and fucking hot and John could not think of anything past how hard he was by now. Fuck, he could feel his heart hammering against his chest, frantically. It was so goddamn loud that he was sure Sherlock could hear it too.

"Sherlock—" he slurred, barely able to comprehend what was happening, because Sherlock Holmes had him shoved up against the wall, one knee between his legs, and his body was pressed up against his in ways that were going to result in—yep. There it was. His cock strained against the front of his trousers immediately.

"How many times have you kissed Sarah, John?" Sherlock's icy gaze dug into John's, his hands almost painful against his wrists. His voice was low, husky, an undercurrent of something almost _menacing_. John had never heard him sound like that before. And John should have been a bit scared at that tone, because Sherlock looked like he was barely holding on to the last vestiges of his self control. Yet John found himself panting and damp and sweaty when Sherlock had barely touched him.

"W-what?" he asked.

"How...many...times...have you...kissed...Sarah?" he leaned in closer so he could whisper the sentence in John's ear, his breath warm against the skin, sending delicious shivers down his spine and causing his cock to twitch involuntarily against Sherlock's denim- clad thigh. He spoke slowly, almost patronizingly, as if he was talking to a toddler.

"I don't—I don't know," John answered pathetically.

"I'll tell you how many times," Sherlock literally growled, nipping John's earlobe. John had to bite his lips to hold back the moan that threatened to slip out.

"Sh—"

"A lot of times, John. A _lot _of _fucking _times," Sherlock pressed himself closer to John, his hips grinding against him, the undeniable erection pressed against John's stomach. He shivered.

"And you know the funny part? You don't even _like _her," his lips made a slow trail down John's ear to his jaw line, skimming across the skin to reach the corner of his mouth. John could barely restrain himself from turning his head to press his lips against Sherlock's, but he moved away, pinning John with his gaze. His lips were parted, and John could _see _the side of his throat subtly pulsing with the rapidity of his heartbeat. Sherlock was aroused, very much so, and John could think of a million ways to take care of that.

"And you think that I would...with_ Irene,_ of all people," he whispered, bringing his face close enough so that his lips brushed against his forehead. "How could you think that?"

"Because you—I saw you—" John mumbled incoherently. It was a bit difficult to string together a sentence when he had to concentrate on not rocking his hips against Sherlock's erection. He felt almost dizzy with the stifling proximity, his body pressed flush against Sherlock's taller frame, the back of his neck damp with sweat; his entire body almost trembling with the need to blindly rut itself against him.

"Yes, John, _she _kissed _me_." He sighed, his breath playing over John's face, warm and muggy, and he leaned his forehead against John, loosening his grip on his wrists slightly, but not enough for John to be able to move them. His arms were a bit sore, but he didn't move—he couldn't move, he felt as if he had been trapped in that position, pinned there with the sheer force of Sherlock's will.

"If you're so _jealous_," Sherlock murmured, his lips moving down, down John's nose, down to his mouth where it brushed teasingly against the skin. "Then why do you keep fleeing from me?"

"I'm not...not jealous," John said shakily, his lips parting under Sherlock's mouth. _Kiss me_, he thought. _Fucking Christ, Sherlock, kiss me. _His entire body was still, every muscle taunt and quivering with blind, aching, painful _need._

Sherlock leaned away from John, smirking. Oh god, that bloody _smirk _again.

"Oh, John, _please_," Sherlock drawled, "Let's not play this game." he removed his hands from John's wrists, only to place one of them at his nape and the other on his hip, his thumb digging rather possessively and painfully against his hip bone. John longed to card his fingers through that luscious mop of hair, but he felt like any movement on his part would shatter the slow, seductive game that Sherlock was playing with him. And he wanted every moment of it.

"You think I'm such an _idiot_, John Watson," Sherlock breathed against his neck, "I can practically hear you heart hammering from here." He placed his lips on John's throat, against his pulse, his tongue darting out to flick against the spot. He gave it a swift bite, grazing his teeth against the skin, wrenching a whimpery gasp from John's lips, as he helplessly arched his back into Sherlock's touch, against the bulge in his pants. "And the _noises _you're making, John," Sherlock literally purred, running his lips up the expanse of John's throat, resting at his mouth again.

"I'm—"

"And sometimes, when you look at me, you lick your lips," Sherlock pressed his lips lightly against John's, not kissing him, but slowly skimming his tongue across his bottom lip. John involuntarily parted his lips to let Sherlock in, but he had leaned away from him before he could do anything else. "And fuck, your pupils are _enormous_, John," he smirked again. He shifted his hand to cup the side of his throat, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip. "And let's not forget _this," _he gyrated his hips obscenely against John's, the friction of their twin erections nearly blowing John's brain to smithereens. "_This _is undeniable evidence."

"Sherlock, _please, _I can't—" John sputtered incoherently.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock smiled crookedly. "And I've been waiting for _weeks_, John. I can read your body like a book, I've always been able to," he bent forward to press his lips to his forehead. "When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And evidence states that you want me. And you know I want you. _Desperately_." He cradled John's face with both hands, lifting it up so he could look down into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze sending a fizzle down his spine right up to the tip of his very erect cock. "So tell me," he bent down closer, until their lips were a hair's breadth away. John felt himself go limp, barely able to remain upright against the door. "Do you want me to kiss you or not?"

"Oh, god, yes," John gasped, and Sherlock didn't waste a second.

He smashed his lips against John's, warm and wet and soft, and the kiss escalated quickly into something animalistic, it was bruising, hard, as if Sherlock was staking a claim on John, saying _mine. _His lips moved almost frantically, his hands pinning John's hips against the wall painfully, and John responded in kind, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing himself to his body until there was nothing separating them except the fabric of their clothing. And it still seemed like too much.

It was _electric._

It was everything he'd dreamed of, in those dark, sinful nights when he'd wake up gasping and sweating, wondering where on earth those thoughts had come from. Sherlock tasted better that he did in all of his filthy, pornographic fantasies, he tasted like smoke and desire and danger. John gripped his shoulders tightly, as if to anchor himself to Sherlock, because surely, _surely _it was impossible for a kiss to feel so good, and his heart beat like a frantic tattoo, and oh god he _wanted _him so much it could grind his bones to dust.

Sherlock deepened the kiss further, his skilful tongue assaulting John's mouth, his teeth grazing his lower lip and tugging on it. John moaned, his knees buckling from all that fucking _heat_, but Sherlock wrapped an arm tightly around his waist and kept him standing. His own tongue twisted and pulled around Sherlock's, revelling in the warm slickness of it. John thrusted against Sherlock's hips, eliciting a deep growl from his throat that was so _hot _that it almost sent him over the edge.

"Fuck," Sherlock said, his deep voice ragged with arousal, feverish lips tracing a line down John's chin and jaw to the taunt skin on his neck, latching his mouth over his pulse, sucking. John threw his head back so hard that it banged painfully against the wall, but that didn't stop the mewl that escaped his lips. "John Watson you are such a _tease_," Sherlock muttered, his tongue and teeth and lips continuing their slow torture on John's throat.

"I'm...the...tease?" John gasped, reaching a hand up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's untidy locks, tugging on them until Sherlock whimpered.

"_Bloody hell_, John," Sherlock hastily shrugged out of his coat, and wrenched John's blazer off his shoulders and threw it behind him where it joined Sherlock's coat on the floor. Then his lips moved to John's mouth again, prising them open forcefully, his tongue working its way inside, and John didn't think he ever had a chance against that sinful mouth. He put his hands on Sherlock's slender waist, those narrow hips that John had been _aching _to touch and wrap his arms around. Slipping his hands under the hem of his T-shirt, he ran his hands over the flat lines of his abdomen and chest, Sherlock's skin hot and flushed under his touch. He gasped against his lips as John raked his fingers across his naked back.

"_John," _Sherlock groaned again, as he rubbed himself against John's straining cock. And the way he said his name, wanton and trembling with ill- repressed greed, could have made John come if he wasn't so determined to not do it in his pants.

Sherlock had other plans, though.

He dexterously slipped a hand between their bodies, and began to fiddle with John's zipper. The touch sent electricity arching down the entirety of his body, and that wrenching _desire _literally ignited his blood. _Sherlock. There. _Oh god.

"Sher—" John started, but he quickly silenced him with another kiss.

"Shh," he whispered. He succeeded in tugging down the zipper with one hand while the other hand kept his squirming hips pinned against the wall. He made quick work of the buttons on John's boxers, and his erection sprung free, slick and hard with arousal.

"Oh fuck," John groaned again, as Sherlock wasted no time in wrapping a hand around it, those bloody fingers working magic.

John's breath came in erratic gasps and whimpery variations of Sherlock's name that seemed to turn him on even more, because the hand moved furiously over John's shaft, moving up and down his sex skilfully. John threw his back with a groan, rolling his hips against Sherlock's hand blindly, his movements un coordinated and unsteady with the amount of desperate _need _coiling in the pit of his stomach, flaming and hungry and ravenous for Sherlock's touch.

"Oh god- oh f- _Sherlock," _his hissed, his fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair, pulling and twisting as his movements grew more urgent, his body losing control with every jerk of his hips.

"Come for me," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

John had already been horny as hell ever since Sherlock had touched him in the hall, and that rough _command _uttered in Sherlock's usually cultured mouth, sent him right over the edge as he gave a sudden jolt of wild pleasure, coming all over Sherlock's slender fingers.

"_Sherlock_!" he cried, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his body spasmed and rocked with the force of his orgasm.

"John, _John," _Sherlock whispered back, burying his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply as John himself half- collapsed onto his shoulder, his body trembling from the aftershocks of one fucking good climax.

"That was...that...was..." John couldn't get much out, he seemed to have lost his voice. He gripped Sherlock's shoulders. Hard.

"Brilliant? Amazing? Fantastic?" Sherlock lifted his head so he could look at him, and he grinned, and it was so adorable and self-satisfied that John couldn't help but kiss him again, clumsily knocking his lips against his mouth. Sherlock made an approving noise and he kissed him back, softer this time, almost sweetly, his hands curling at the back of his head. His lips moved slowly, taking time to address each inch of John's mouth.

Then he pulled away, leaning his forehead against John's, panting heavily. And that was when John realised that Sherlock's arousal was still digging into his still exposed cock, and he flushed. How selfish of him. "Sherlock," he whispered. "Sorry, should I—"

"No," Sherlock said, with some finality, pinning the wrist that John had lifted against the wall. "No quid pro quo. Calm down."

"But I—"

"Trust me, John. There will be many more opportunities for you to wank me. Countless opportunities, if I'm allowed to have my way," he pressed a quick, chase kiss to John's lips, his hands moving to John's boxers to button them and quickly zip up his trousers. "For now, however," he smirked. "I think we should notify your..._date_."

John went scarlet. "Oh my god," he groaned, covering his face with his hand. "Oh my god we did it in an empty classroom."

"Ye-es," Sherlock replied slowly, peeling himself away from him. "But you look fine. I'm the one who has your ejaculate all over my pants," to emphasize the point he wiped his sticky hand on his jeans. "Glad I brought my coat."

John's eyes widened at the stained denim. "Oh dear god," he wailed. "How do we go out like this?" He looked down at his own trousers, which were thankfully black, so they hid most of it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be overdramatic, John," he bent down to retrieve his coat, throwing it over his shoulders. "You look _fine_." He picked up John's blazer from the floor. "Turn around."

John obeyed, letting Sherlock put his blazer on for him. He brushed a kiss against his nape as he fixed the collar from behind. Then he grabbed his shoulders, turning him around. He smiled mischievously. "There. See? Good as new. You don't look like you've been snogging anyone at all." He doubted that. Sherlock himself looked ravaged. His hair was a complete mess and his eyes were far too bright and his lips were red and bruised, and he really wanted to kiss him again.

"Just snogging?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Let's not get into the _technicalities_, John," Sherlock drawled, opening the door and poking his head outside to make sure no one was in the hallway. "Come on."

John really wanted to hold Sherlock's hand, because he realised that he was _allowed _to do that now, and he could pretty much touch Sherlock whenever he wanted, and he was going to make use of that privilege now, in all sorts of filthy ways.

And while that was a delightful prospect, he still needed to tell Sarah this new development. However, when they walked inside the Hall, Sarah wasn't sitting alone and moping like John had expected.

"_Carl Powers_?" John said, incredulously.

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered, his eyes scanning the dance floor. "Such impeccable taste. I see now why you liked her so much."

John shot Sherlock a withering look, which shut him up.

"Well, she looks fine. Dancing away." John ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think we should disturb her."

"You're right," Sherlock agreed solemnly. "That would be awful."

"Really disrespectful."

"The absolute height of bad manners."

"So we could just—"

"Get the hell out of here?"

"Brilliant idea."

So the both of them turned around and left the Hall the way they came, although John noticed Victor and Henry looking at them rather knowingly.

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><p>"I think Henry and Victor are shagging," John informed Sherlock once they were outside. It was bloody cold.<p>

"Of course they are," he replied impatiently. "You realised that now?" Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and quickly ran down the stairs. John followed.

"You _knew_?"

"Obviously. They've been going at it for weeks."

John gaped. "And you never thought of telling me?"

"Hardly a suitable conversational topic when I was more interested in getting into _your _pants, John," Sherlock replied, deadpan. They walked quickly across the grounds.

"And I thought Victor was thinking of going at you," John muttered sullenly. "Where are we going?"

"Good question," he stopped, so John stopped. Sherlock rubbed his chin in mock concentration. "Well, we could spend the night _here_, on the grounds...but it would be rather cold, don't you think? And I'm afraid our extremities would freeze before we had the opportunity of doing anything with them. Fellatio, of course, would be out of the question." Sherlock pursed his lips like he was trying to control his laughter.

Quickly pushing the thought of Sherlock fellating him out of his head, John narrowed his eyes. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"_You're_ the expert in that field, aren't you?" he arched an eyebrow.

"Where are we _going_?"

"To my house. Call your mother and tell her you're staying over at my place."

John's eyebrows. "Your...house?" he croaked.

"Mmm-hmm," Sherlock grabbed his arm to direct him over the remainder of the ground. "Yes. I have all sorts of facilities. Including a bed." He shot John a smirk. "I can think of many ways we can put that bed to use."

John's mouth dried. "That sounds like a very good idea," John said weakly.

"Of course it's a good idea, John. It involves me sucking you off. Now come _on."_

Walking was a bit difficult with another erection digging its way through John's pants, growing a bit more excited at Sherlock's brash words. "How did you get here, anyway?" he muttered, trying to throw the conversation off to a less erotic avenue.

"Motorbike."

"Motor—_what?"_

"It's Irene's. She messed up quite a bit today, so I believe I was in my own right to demand a quick means of transportation," Sherlock shot him a roguish grin. "Ah, here it is," the sleek black vehicle was propped up against the fence outside school, two helmets hanging off its handles.

"You know how to ride?" John asked, watching Sherlock easily throw a leg over the seat and his elegant hands grip the handles. Fuck. John suddenly had a very filthy image of him fucking Sherlock on that very seat.

Sherlock seemed to realise the direction of John's thoughts, because he smirked. "Get in behind, John," he said, said, voice too low to be innocent, strapping on the helmet.

John slid into the seat behind Sherlock, relishing the feel of Sherlock's back against his chest. This was...this was...dear god.

Sherlock Holmes. On a motor bike. _Riding a bloody motorbike_. It was so...so _hot_.

He handed John a helmet. "Put it on," he ordered, and John obeyed.

Sherlock turned the handles, and the engine purred into action. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, feeling the hard planes of his flat stomach. It was perhaps a bit tighter than the motorbike warranted, but if he couldn't take advantage of the vehicle this way, what was the point of riding a motorbike?

"John, stop wiggling so much. I _am _a slave to my baser instincts, and I don't want to get arrested for indecent public behaviour."

John flushed, but didn't loosen his grip. "Get used to it," he said.

"Careful," Sherlock replied, his voice muffled through the helmet. "Don't bite off more than you can chew."

John's muscles clenched deliciously at his words. "Why don't you just ride?"

"Certainly endeavouring to, John."

And with that, they sped off.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was a speed maniac. That was sure. He sped through the quiet streets of Brighton like a delinquent and John absolutely <em>loved <em>it. He could literally feel the glee radiating off Sherlock and he wasn't sure if that was because of him finally getting a hand around John's cock or the motorbike. He was rather hoping it was his cock causing all this happiness.

He drove to a halt in front of their house, quickly shutting off the ignition and sliding off the seat. John did it a lot less elegantly. And when Sherlock took off his helmet, his hair was all windswept and messy and his eyes were wide and bright and John didn't waste a second in grabbing the lapels of his coat and giving him a hard, bruising kiss.

The force of the kiss almost knocked him backwards, and Sherlock kissed him back feverishly, but quickly, pulling away.

"John," he said, his voice strangled. "I'm afraid I can't snog you here, that would be a terrible idea." He grabbed his arm. "Come on. Bedroom."

"Bedroom?" John asked, still feeling slightly dazed from how damn good Sherlock looked. Sherlock's hand was tightly interlaced with John's, and he was half-dragging him across the gravel path that led to the door. He was literally sprinting, and John almost smirked, thinking that Sherlock was probably far hornier that he was letting on.

"What are you smirking about?" he asked irritably, pulling a key from the back pocket of jeans and stabbing it into the lock.

"Nothing," John smiled coquettishly. Sherlock didn't comment, just kicked the door open rather violently, and tugged on John's arm so that he could pull him upstairs to his bedroom.

"Where is everyone?" John asked, looking around as Sherlock literally carried him upstairs in his haste to get him inside.

"I don't know. I don't care. Mycroft's out, I'm guessing. Parents are always out," Sherlock spoke quickly, his words literally falling over each other, tumbling out of his usually very restrained mouth. Well, not _restrained_...John wouldn't use that word after the way he had ravished him in that unused classroom. He quite wanted to be ravished again.

Sherlock finally got to his bedroom door, which was open. He pulled John inside, locked the door, and shoved him against the wall, wasting no time in attacking his lips with his own furiously, moving against him with barely controlled hunger.

John's crotch immediately roused itself, as Sherlock pressed his body flush against John's, his tongue lapping at his bottom lip, his teeth grazing and biting and gnashing. John moved his hands to his shoulders, pushing his coat off. Sherlock succeeded in wrenching the blazer off John's shoulders only halfway, successfully pinning his arms in his own jacket behind his back. He moved down John's throat, teeth tugging at the bowtie and tearing it off like he had a personal vendetta against it.

John could feel the rush of blood in his ears, the smell of Sherlock and the feel of him, hard and angular and unyielding against his chest, a heady combination that threatened to reduce him to a puddle on the floor. A very horny puddle.

"I have been waiting to get this suit off you ever since I saw you in it," Sherlock murmured against his lips, his voice low and so _sensual, _dragging him by the collar of his shirt to his bed.

"Avoid the fungi," John muttered between kisses.

"Stop thinking about the _fungi, _I am about to rip your suit off,_" _Sherlock growled, finally reaching the bed, where he threw him unceremoniously on top of the covers. John scrambled up, propping himself on his elbows, getting rid of the blazer, finally. Sherlock climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, his knees pinning John's thighs against the mattress.

"Don't you...like...the suit?" John asked, panting.

"The suit is marvellous," he drawled, bringing his face closer to John's and placing a teasing kiss on his lips, a brief brush of skin. "I can barely keep myself from ripping it to shreds."

"Sherlock, stop _teasing_," John complained, lifting his pelvis to grind his crotch against Sherlock's very visible erection.

"You've been teasing me for _weeks_," Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth. "Allow me to return the favour."

"Oh no, you don't," John growled, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist, and tilting his hips so he threw Sherlock off. Quickly, he climbed on top of the very surprised Sherlock, interlacing their fingers and pinning them to either side of his shaggy head.

Sherlock's pale cheeks went the most adorable shade of pink that John had ever seen.

"John," he gasped, his pupils blown wide with arousal.

"Mmm? Saying something, were you?" John grinded his erection into Sherlock's to alleviate some of the coiling tension.

"I'm—uh—" Blessedly, Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. John didn't care, really. This was not the time for talk. He lowered himself on his slender body, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, pale pink and so bloody_ inviting._ They were so perfect, so delicate, almost _feminine_. The need to ravish that mouth was overwhelming. His lips parted almost immediately, and John took the chance to slowly fuck the inside of Sherlock's mouth with his own tongue, relishing how _spectacular _Sherlock tasted.

"John," Sherlock moaned, against his lips, and there it was, the _way _he said his name. "_John," _he whimpered again. John moved his lips down his chin to that delectable neck, the neck he had been dying to kiss and tease and bite. It was delicate and slender, and John pressed his mouth to the pulsing carotid artery, giving it a swift nip, which caused Sherlock to buck his hips upwards with a low growl.

"John, your _shirt_," he muttered, his fingers moving to the buttons, viciously ripping his shirt apart. John was pretty sure that shirt would be sort of useless now. The shirt hung off his shoulders once Sherlock was done with his assault, and John shrugged it off. Sherlock's eyes raked his naked torso, and if possible, John went even harder, under the frank appraisal in Sherlock's dilated gaze.

"You're wearing too many clothes," John said, his voice shaking, wrenching the hem of Sherlock's blasted t-shirt upward. He arched his back to allow him to drag it off his head and throw it behind him. John took a moment to admire the lithe, pale torso, the hard lines of his stomach and chest, the fine trail of hair that lead underneath his jeans, the jeans that hung off the angular hips so perfectly. With a groan, he lowered his mouth to a dark nipple, his tongue giving it a tentative flick.

"_John_," Sherlock warbled, arching his back, pushing it deeper into John's mouth. John smirked against his chest, taking the nipple into his mouth and tugging it gently with his teeth. Sherlock gave another whimpery moan, and John could hardly rein in his own groan at the sound. Sherlock sounding so...so _needy_, when he was always so perfectly in control, seeing the heat in his cheeks and along the pale skin of his throat, it turned John on more than anything Sherlock did. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist, thrusting his hips desperately against his erection, and John knew that Sherlock deserved some attention right_ now_.

"Sherlock," he said, lifting himself off a bit so he could look at Sherlock's face, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.

"John why are you _stopping," _he complained.

"I need you to tell me what you want," John said slowly, licking his lips. "I don't know—this is the first time I..." his voice trailed off.

"You are doing brilliantly, John, please don't _stop_. Do what you're doing, god, _please." _He curled a hand behind his neck, pulling John up roughly, placing a hard, brief kiss against his lips. "_Please," _he begged again.

John nodded mutely, feeling a little dizzy from the force of his kiss, but complying, as Sherlock fell back against the covers with a thump, spreading his legs under John wider. He slid down the length of his body, unable to restrain himself from raking his lips across his smooth, unblemished skin. His skin was hot and feverish to touch, and John felt like branding every inch of it with his teeth and mouth.

He slid his mouth down further, until he was at his crotch, and he nuzzled against his erection through the well-strained denim. Sherlock jolted under him, lifting his pelvis off the mattress with a breathy whimper of, "John _please."_

John quickly flicked the top button of his jeans, not wanting to fumble, wanting this to be absolutely _perfect _for Sherlock, to show him how much he adored him, cherished him. He pulled them down over Sherlock's delicate thighs, unable to help the smirk that tugged at his mouth at the sight of his erection protruding the front of the familiar red boxers almost obscenely. His own erection throbbed at the sight.

John smiled at those boxers, those boxers that had been haunting his dreams ever since he had seen Sherlock in them all those days ago, when he had leapt out of the covers half-naked. With a self-satisfied smirk, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled them right down.

"Fuck, John, _please."_

"Sherlock," John murmured, and Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at John, whose lips were a centimetre away from Sherlock's erection.

"I-uh—" he licked his lips nervously. _This needs to be perfect. _"I'm not exactly sure how to—"

"You put your mouth on it and _suck_, John," Sherlock muttered, flopping back. "Now could you please—get _on _with it?"

Sherlock was panting, his voice trembling with need, his cock erect and leaking. John took a moment to admire him, spread eagled and begging for his touch. God, he would never get enough of this. _Ever._

He obliged, latching his lips around his weeping sex, sucking tentatively; but Sherlock seemed to like it, because he groaned, his hips giving a sudden lurch as he pushed himself inside John's mouth. He almost gagged from the unfamiliar weight of it, but the needy, gasping whimpers of pleasure that were escaping Sherlock's mouth, the knowledge that _he _was making him feel like that...it made it worth it.

"John," Sherlock gasped, his fingers curling tightly in his hair. "_John_, fuck- oh _fuck, _John—" John would have smirked if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, because to hear _Sherlock _growing absolutely inarticulate with pleasure was the bloody hottest thing he had ever heard.

"_Yes, _John—oh god, John, don't—stop." The bed sheets were coiled tightly around his other hand.

He moved his lips up and down, coating Sherlock in his saliva and licking it off, as Sherlock thrusted his own hips in time to the movements of John's inexperienced mouth. Sherlock gave an incoherent babble of, "_Oh dear fucking—_bloody hell-oh _John..."_ and John continued to swirl his tongue around the tip of his cock and then move his lips down it again.

"John, I'm—" Sherlock's grip in his hair tightened painfully, but he didn't care. He was going to give him an orgasm he would not forget. "John I'm going to—"

John continued to suck, allowing his tongue and his teeth to slide up and down over his length. He didn't exactly know what he was doing, but he knew what _he _liked, and he attempted to pleasure Sherlock in the same way. It seemed to be working. With a final thrust and a tug on John's hair, Sherlock gave an almost violent spasm and the unexpected, salty, bitter taste filled John's mouth, and he was only vaguely aware of Sherlock screaming his name while he came. All he knew was that he had never heard something so beautiful before, and the inelegant swallowing of ejaculate was worth it.

John slipped his lips off Sherlock's slick and wet cock, wiping his mouth, giving a little cough. Sherlock's come trickled down the sides of his mouth.

Sherlock himself was panting heavily, his chest rising and following. His cheeks were red, as was his throat and his sweaty chest, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. John leaned forward and kissed him softly, the sight of that ravished, debauched mouth irresistible. The pale skin around his lips was red and sensitive from all the kissing. Then he buried his face in his shoulder, collapsing against him.

Sherlock gave a shuddery sigh, wrapping an arm around John's back. He felt him place a clumsy kiss on his hair.

"John," he mumbled. "John you are fantastic," he finished, turning over so that he could face him. A shy smile graced his pale, beautiful features.

"You're not so bad yourself," John replied, throwing a leg over his hip and snuggling closer. "Although I don't...have anyone to compare that too. You're the first boy I've given a blow job to."

"And the only one," Sherlock said, sleepily, and his hand trailed down his chest to grip his erection. "I should—"

"No," John said, firmly, even though his cock seemed to be rather reluctant. He removed Sherlock's hand and brought it to his lips instead. "No quid pro quo, remember? Later."

Sherlock gazed back at him, his silvery eyes still rather dilated. "Mm—kay," he murmured, sliding down so he could nuzzle the skin under John's chin. He lightly kissed the hollow at the base of his throat, the grip around his waist tightening. "This has been a very..." John felt a telltale breath of warm air as Sherlock yawned. "A _very _good day."

"Has it?" John answered, playfully. "What do you think's made it so good?"

"Don't be smug, John," he mumbled against his collarbone. "It doesn't suit you."

John chuckled, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of Sherlock's hair, feeling blissful and sated, the thought of Irene long gone from his mind, when suddenly he shot up with a rather alarming thought.

Sherlock looked extremely offended, looking at John with a complete look of betrayal, as if saying _How dare you take away that wonderful warmth_.

"_Sherlock_," John said, looking down at him. Sherlock shifted so he was on his back, scowling at John.

"Get back here," he snapped.

"Sherlock- did I just—in your parent's house—did I really—oh my god, what if someone heard us? Sherlock, the _sheets!" _he waved dramatically at the bedspread, which certainly did bear clear evidence of sexual activities.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And they say _I'm _the dramatic one," he said under his breath.

"I'm not joking!" John wailed.

"John, calm down," Sherlock muttered, rolling off the bed. He kicked off the jeans and the boxers that were still wrapped around his ankles. John felt his thoughts derailed for a moment by a very naked Sherlock, but he didn't get much time to admire it for very long, because he picked up some other piece of discarded clothing on the floor (he wondered whether the majority of his clothing littered his room, and not his closet), a pair of clean black pyjamas. John liked those pyjamas. He liked the hips they clung to so perfectly even more.

"Get off the bed," he sighed. He looked thoroughly annoyed. Well it's not like John was doing it on purpose! He didn't need Sherlock's parents accusing him of depraved activities. He obliged, jumping off the bed. Sherlock gave a violent tug to the semen covered sheets, pulling them off in one great heave, and curling them into a ball, threw them into the corner of the room.

"There," he quipped. "Mrs. Turner will take care of that. Now get into the bed."

John rubbed his throat rather nervously. "Why isn't anyone home?"

"Rogers is home. My parents won't be home till—I don't know," he clambered into the bed, grabbing John's wrist to tug him half way into his lap. "Mycroft may be home."

John's eyes widened. "_Mycroft?"_

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's torso, burying his face in his neck, hooking an a leg around his waist, nudging him closer. "Don't worry, if he's heard anything, I don't really care."

"Yeah, but _I _do! How am I supposed to look into your brother's eyes when I know that he knows that we—that we—"

"John stop babbling and relax," Sherlock kissed a spot beneath John's ear, which sort of shut him up. "The only person that knows for a fact what we did is my skull. You can trust his confidentiality. Does your mother know that you're here?"

"Well, _here _as in—"

Sherlock chuckled. "I mean at my house. You needn't inform her that you're in my bed."

"Yeah, I texted her," John mumbled, sneaking a glance at Sherlock's skull, learning at him from his messy desk.

"Good," Sherlock nuzzled his neck. "Although she may be surprised. After all, it is some sort of tradition to go home with your _date _isn't it?"

"Do you care?" John ran his fingers down Sherlock's back, eliciting a purr from him that reminded him of a cat.

"Not particularly, no."

"Can I ask you something?" John asked, his voice slightly hesitant.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you come to school today?"

Sherlock stiffened under his touch, not saying anything for a few moments. Then he slid upwards, so that John could see his face. He was biting his lip in a ridiculously alluring way. "Why do you think?"

"I don't—well. I don't like to think that it was me."

"Of course it was you," Sherlock sighed, rolling on to his back. "I didn't know whether I'd be able to control myself around you. You fled yesterday. You would have fled today, and I didn't know whether you'd come back."

"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," John whispered, aching to make up for all the hurt he had caused Sherlock the past few days. He turned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry. I won't run. Never. We're together now, yeah?" he threaded his fingers with Sherlock's, placing their entwined hands on his chest, where he could feel Sherlock's heart beating steadily under the skin.

Sherlock took a deep, peaceful breath. "Yes. Of course we are." he lifted their hands to his lips.

"So..." John cleared his throat. "Why did she kiss you anyway?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, an annoyed expression crossing his face. John grieved the loss of Sherlock's lips on his hand, but he had brought it upon himself.

"Does it matter?" he asked, irritably.

"Yes," John said. "It does. Because I don't want other people kissing you, Sherlock. I'm the only one who's allowed to do that."

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards. "Obviously, John. You've got no competition. There isn't anyone else."

John felt his heart flutter, but he needed an answer. "Stop avoiding the question."

"I don't know," he huffed. "Some sort of boyfriend drama, I presume. The insufferable tosser cheated on her, she ended up here, I tried to comfort her, things got out of hand. She was distraught. I don't blame her. You shouldn't, either." He looked at him then, his gaze not being one to broach argument.

"You like her, don't you?"

"I care for her, yes. I might have been a bit...rude...to her. Today." He bit his lips. "She was the one who originally told me that I should pursue you with a bit more fervour," he smirked.

John snuggled closer. "Then I should thank her. But she shouldn't have kissed you."

"Don't worry about it, please. I care for you more than anyone else. She's just a friend. I promise. You're..." John saw his Adam's apple bob skittishly. "You're a lot more."

John didn't need him to say anything else. He kissed the side of his neck softly. "Right back at you."

Then he cleared his throat.

"John, on that subject, I think... I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his head, his expression hesitant. He licked his lips nervously. "Well..."

John shifted closer, trying to calm Sherlock down with his touch. He brushed a few stray locks from his forehead. "Hey," he said, "It's okay. You can tell me anything."

"I—uh—well—" he swallowed thickly. "Jim came to see me today," he finished in a great big rush.

John felt himself bristle. Fucking Jim Moriarty. Fucking Jim Moriarty who kept on mentally undressing Sherlock whenever he laid eyes on him. "What did he want?" he asked, rather harshly. Sherlock flinched at his tone.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" he said apologetically, regretting the snappishness. It wasn't Sherlock's fault.

He waved him off. "It's okay. Well, he said he wanted to go for a..." he licked his lip again. "_Walk."_

John raised his eyebrows. "And you went with him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly.

"And I'm assuming that this walk wasn't just a walk?" John felt his scalp prickle. The thought of Jim touching Sherlock...in _any _way...it was abhorrent. He'd break his fingers first before he tried to pull that shit.

"We went to a...cemetery," he licked his lips.

John frowned at him. "_Why_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He seemed to think that was a good place to have a conversation. But that's not what I'm telling you."

"Then what _are _you telling me, Sherlock? Spit it out already," John said, his voice rising an octave. If Jim—

"He kissed me," Sherlock mumbled, dully.

"_WHAT?" _John bolted upright, staring at Sherlock in a mixture of shock and anger "He _what?" _How dare he. How fucking dare he. He was going to wring that smarmy bastard's neck. He was going to bash his knuckles against that mouth. "Are you fucking with me?" he shrieked.

"John, calm down—"

"And you _let _him kiss you?" John couldn't help the jealousy coil in his stomach, threatening to blow way out of proportion. Sherlock was...Sherlock was _his. _Nobody had else had a right to—_no one_.

"I didn't _let _him kiss me, John," Sherlock said, sitting up, his eyes growing harder. The corner of his lip turned down in disapproval. "I don't want you to think that. He just—I don't know. I didn't expect it. I pushed him off. Don't think that—John." Sherlock inched forward, his expression softening. threading his fingers through John's hand and grasping it tightly. "John, look at me."

John lifted his gaze from his knees to look at Sherlock. He was watching him with a weary expression, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. He knew he may be overreacting, but really, could Sherlock blame him? He hated that fucking git. And he actually had the audacity to _kiss Sherlock_? _Touch _him? Irene, he could just about forgive this one lapse of judgement. She actually cared about Sherlock. But Jim...Jim didn't deserve to breathe the same air as him.

"I detest him, John," he said, with finality. "I didn't expect it, I promise. I didn't know what his intentions were. I pushed him off, I swear." He leaned forward and kissed John chastely on his lips. "You're the only one that matters. It was nothing, John. An incident that I was planning to delete, but I realised that perhaps I should inform you of it. I decided that you needed to know. I didn't want Jim coming to you and making up some ridiculous tale about how I..." he waved his hand vaguely. "begged for his mouth on me or something."

John knew that his words should have been enough. But that deep rooted insecurity...the feeling that he wouldn't be _enough_ for Sherlock, because he would get _bored _of him—when Sherlock was so perfect, how could _he, John Watson—_

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped, fingers curling under his chin and lifting his head up.

John's eyes widened. "Stop what?"

"Stop _thinking _so much. Do you trust me or not?"

"Of course I trust you," He replied, before thinking. But it was true.

"Then trust me when I tell you that I have no interest in Jim Moriarty whatsoever. The only person I am interested in is _you_. You have all of my attention, John. You have...you have _everything_. Do you understand?"

"I—yes. Yes, I do."

"Well thank God for that sudden revelation," Sherlock muttered, dryly, brushing his thumb against John's mouth.

John felt his lips twitch at the deadpan expression on Sherlock's face. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "I'm going to break his nose when school re opens, I hope you know that."

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

"I won't," John leaned back, flopping down on the bed. "Come here."

Sherlock obeyed, immediately laying down next to him and moulding himself to John's side, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a vine. "Don't think about him so much. Or Irene. From now on you're the only I'll be kissing. And doing all sorts of filthy things with." He kissed John's neck. "And if you kill him, don't worry. I'll send the police off on the wrong track. You won't even go to jail."

"Always know you've got my back," John said sleepily, the excitement of the day finally catching up with him. He was still going to kill Moriarty, of course, but he decided to take Sherlock's words at face value. After all, if Sherlock thought _he _was everything to him, well, Sherlock was...Sherlock was everything and even _more._ He carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, scratching his scalp. He made a low rumble of approval in response, melting into John's touch.

"Goodnight," he mumbled.

"Goodnight," John whispered back, laying a kiss on top of his head. He closed his eyes after that, feeling so ridiculously happy that it should have been illegal.

_Sherlock._ And _him. Together. _It felt like he had been given something he didn't even know he had been longing for, and now that it had been given to him, he wondered why he had spent so long _not _wanting it.

He fell asleep soon, to the soft sound of Sherlock's relaxed breathing and the scent of his hair.

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><p><strong>*hides behind bush* <strong>

***speaks from behind this bush* I am not going to show my face for a while now. It's so red I look like an apple. I hope you liked that.**

**Reviews and reviewers are loved. Drop a line on your way out. :)**


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